


City of Light

by Weiila



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-07 14:47:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11625792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weiila/pseuds/Weiila
Summary: Pseudo-sequel to Introspective Hero (but can be read without reading that first). Takes place during and after Jak X.Krew left one last gift to his daughter, to either help her cement her power or protect her from Mizo's wrath. Now that she stands victorious after the championship, she collects that gift to use as she sees fit in her growing empire. Dark themes.





	1. Premonition

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this isn't strictly a sequel to Introspective Hero since it has a completely different focus, it's more like it takes place in the same world after that story.
> 
> If you don't feel like slogging through 250k+ words of prequel, here's the gist of it:
> 
> Jak and Daxter are stupidly much in love, even though Jak has lingering issues with touching due to his history.
> 
> Damas is alive and figured out that Jak is his son.
> 
> There are a whole lotta former KGs living in Spargus, commonly referred to as "exes." One of them, Zem, was a prison guard while Jak was held captive by Baron Praxis, and Zem has lived with the guilt of what he did during that time ever since. He'll have a bit of a role later on, but he's not super important. Zem is unable to walk properly, from being tortured by another former prison guard.

Kras City just never shut up. If there weren't any races going on at the current time, there were always reruns being played from radios and TVs, heard through open windows and from street corners. Widescreen TVs flashed images of cars interspersed with commercials and G. T. Blitz' grinning face in a never ending cycle. And where there weren't TVs, there were blinking neon lights advertising every useless thing the human mind could imagine.

It gave Sig a headache after just a few minutes, but he knew he had to get through it for the time being. Just taking one step outside in this neon cesspit made him long for the hot, wide open sea of sand he hailed from. But he had a job to do that was far more important than his own wishes – a familiar comfort that left a bitter taste in his mouth if he dwelled on it for too long, but he pushed it aside with the knowledge that he was in Kras to help his friends.

And speaking of which…

Sig had always had the strength and size to move pretty much anywhere without fear. Still, he kept his eyes (normal and mechanical alike) open – Kras could be dangerous at any time of the day, and right now it was near midnight _and_ he was heading right into the seedier parts of the town. It wasn't far less dangerous than a metal head den in broad daylight.

He could feel the suspicious eyes following him from the shadows of the fluttering streetlights, but nobody approached him as he headed through the maze of streets and back alleys. His size and aura of confidence helped, as did his change into his armor made of metal head skulls. A knife wielding moron would have to be more than usually drunk or high to jump somebody like that.

Sig walked with consciously heavy steps, too, making sure everyone knew he was there and not afraid to let them know. It told them very clearly that he knew that they were there, too.

Some may even recognize him from a few years back, when he was Krew's top dog. Top bloodhound.

Sig gritted his teeth at the uninvited thought and shoved it out of his mind, focusing on moving ever deeper into the heart of Kras – not at its center, but to the side, tucked away near the harbor where it would be easy to ship the cars for mainland races. Mizo may or may not be here somewhere. That wasn't Sig's business right then.

It would have been safer, and more subtle, to just send a message and meet up somewhere. But Sig had a second reason for going, and that was to send a message that the opposing team weren't scared. And more importantly, he knew Jak and the others had absolutely no reason to come here. There was no risk of something stupid like them noticing him having a meeting with the person he sought, or somebody seeing his call history on his communicator for some reason. He might be overly paranoid – but he had good reason.

He couldn't let them find out about this. Not about what he had done to them.

By the middle of a wide street was a line of garage doors. In an alley by the edge of them was a closed door, which Sig located after some squinting into the dimly lit way. The few pedestrians who were about pretended not to look at him, then quickly averted their eyes as he went into the alley.

He knocked hard on the door several times, then waited. Out in the street, people and cars kept drifting past.

After a few seconds, the door opened. Common crook sense (Jinx' proverb) would have dictated that it should have opened just an inch, or that the small window on it should've been used to communicate with the visitor. But Mizo had owned the city for years, and his men knew that even a Wastelander in full armor was out of his element here. So the door swung wide open, and the man Sig recognized as Edje casually leant against the frame. Playing with a knife, of course.

In the background, thugs and mechanics – and combinations of it – glared dangerously to make sure they were obvious backup. There was more than one click of a gun being prepared.

Sig just folded his arms, unblinking.

"Whaddaya want, Spiky?" Edje drawled.

"Kleiver," Sig countered.

Edje sneered, and so did many of the crooks behind him.

"An' what's it to ya?" he demanded.

"What's goin' on here?" came Kleiver's voice from the back.

Edje's face scrounged up in frustration, but he stepped back with a glare at the huge man lumbering out behind a car and across the floor. Behind him, a ragged-looking, dark-skinned man with his black hair in a ponytail glared after him, leaning on the car. Sig thought he looked familiar, but didn't consider it too long.

"Heh! 'ello nipper-watcher," Kleiver said, grinning as he saw who it was. "Come to join the winning team?"

Sig shook his head.

"Spargus business," he said.

The grin fell off of Kleiver's face immediately.

"Why didn't ya say so?" he growled. Looking over his shoulder, he shouted, "Oi! You better have everythin' fixed when I get back, ya mincemeat!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" the dark-skinned man grunted back and waved a wrench goodbye before clumsily moving down behind the car again. He didn't seem to be able to walk right. A memory sparked in Sig's mind, but he was a bit too focused on what he was doing.

Playing deaf to Edje's complaints – letting out that they could get orders from Mizo at any moment, and from the way Kleiver's face darkened he hadn't wanted that brought up even though it wasn't much of a mystery – Kleiver followed Sig out into the night air.

They found themselves an open, scruffy and mostly empty restaurant and ordered beers just to keep the waitresses from muttering. The girls and the bartender listened in, of course, but they got nothing for their trouble. The two Wastelanders spoke in too low voices, and with such thick Spargan dialects, that it was impossible for an outsider to catch anything sensible.

Sig knew that the others wouldn't have believed for a second what he was doing. It wasn't just meeting with Kleiver, who was competition, who was an enemy. Sig was spilling the whole story.

They had agreed, long before Sig arrived to help, that they wouldn't tell anybody that they were poisoned. If it got out, Mizo could very well find a way to delay the final race, or try to find and destroy the antidote.

However, Jak and the others' situation was far more dire than they themselves knew. That was why Sig was there in the restaurant, telling Kleiver about the poison. And telling him things that Jak and the Havenites didn't have a clue about.

And in that moment, listening to Sig speaking low and quick, Kleiver was no longer an enemy on the race track. He wasn't a mercenary hired by Mizo because he just saw it as a laugh – and Damas had shrugged his shoulders and said that he knew Jak could handle the competition so he allowed it… because Damas didn't know about the poison either. Jak couldn't bear to tell Damas his son was hanging on a thin line, not from something so chilling, something that couldn't be fought.

But in that moment, Kleiver became a Wastelander again.

And Kleiver didn't like hearing it. And he liked the rest even less.

"That little snake!"

Kleiver slammed his fist so hard into the table that the two mostly untouched drinks tipped over and spilled across the tablecloth. Not that the watery alcohol made the cloth that much dirtier. The waitresses and bartender jumped a mile.

Sig clenched his jaw. His reaction had been more subdued, but only because he'd let Rayn finish her explanation. It had helped a little that he'd suspected the truth from the very beginning.

She'd known about the poison. But there was a reason she told Sig so, and that kept him from lashing out at her.

"She's got 'em all where she wants them," Sig said. He grabbed Kleiver's arm as the man was about to stand, murder in his eyes. Kleiver could take fair fights, and even ones with a little cheating, as long as the opposition deserved it. The racing had been a fun distraction, but it was no longer amusing. Not when this filth had been bared. "Kleiver, shut up for a sec! There ain't no antidote!"

The huge man blinked. Then his lips drew back in a growl and he thumped back in his seat, staring at the other Wastelander.

"Say _whot_?" Kleiver hoarsely demanded.

Sig could easily imagine that his own initial thoughts were currently going through Kleiver's head as well. At the front was a very, very upset King of Spargus. And Kleiver didn't even know exactly why Jak was so important to Damas, though he may have guessed somewhat right. The man wasn't as stupid as he looked.

"Krew never made enough," Sig said, rubbing his forehead. "Didn'a surprise me. He wouldn't care."

Kleiver said nothing for a moment.

"That's it, then?" he darkly said. "It takes too long to brew. They're dead."

"No. He made a little of it, enough for one person. Just in case Rayn got poisoned. She can use that as a base to cook up more in time. It should work."

Kleiver's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Why she doin' that?" he asked.

" _I know I was always a bit of a daddy's girl, but I'm not my father," she said, cradling the bottle in her hands like she feared somebody would break through the window to snatch it from her. Sig watched as she put it back in the small safe, then put the safe far beneath the floorboards, covered up the hollow, and put the floorboard back in place. Finally she pulled the carpet over it and he silently helped her put the table and chairs back on the carpet._

_All that done, she gazed up at him again._

" _I have to put you in a bit of a pressured situation, I'm afraid. But I need your help, Sig. You just have to help me save them."_

_She didn't really need to say that, and she knew it. Still, he felt like it cushioned the blow from the truth further. His anger had deflated._

" _Of course, kitten."_

Sig pushed the memory aside and shook his head.

"She's prolly not so rotten," he said. Then added, in an easier tone, "or mebbe Jak put on the charm without noticin'."

To that comment, Kleiver's ugly mug split in a sneer and he guffawed.

"She din't notice he only likes redheads, eh?" he said. Sig's lips twitched to that, but they both sobered just as quick. "Well, whatever. What's she needin'?"

"Bronze camellia," Sig said.

Pause.

"That it?" Kleiver said and grunted. "Figger. Gotta give 'er props for findin' everything else, I s'pose."

"How soon can you get it?" Sig asked.

Silence reigned for a few seconds as Kleiver thumbed his oily mustache, scowling at the table as he thought. Over by the bar, the bartender rapped his fingers against a shelf, watching impatiently via a mirror to not be too obvious. He and the waitresses could see plain as day that something very important was going on, and the inability to listen in was maddening.

"In two days if we're lucky," Kleiver finally said. He gave Sig a sharp look. "When did they chug it down?"

"'bout two weeks ago, before the championship began," Sig said, his jaw clenched.

Kleiver spat out a curse.

"Gonna be close, 'specially for the wee ones like the girls and the ungodly ex-rat."

In any other situation, Sig would've taken the opportunity to ask what exactly had happened to Veger. The former-slimeball-of-a-man-turned-depressed-Precursor had been seen for about a week clinging to Kleiver's shoulder, and then he had mysteriously vanished.

However, Sig was in no mood to find out the hopefully grisly truth.

"Can she pay for it, tho'?" Kleiver asked, eyeing the man before him. "That stuff ain't cheap, ya know that."

Sig took in a deep breath.

"I'll pay ya."

"Hoo…? She ain't coughing it up?"

No response.

"I dun like the sound'a this, Sig."

"It's all I can do now," Sig said, glaring at the wet tablecloth. Neither one of them had bothered picking up the glasses Kleiver had overturned. "She ain't a big shot yet, either. She got everythin' else."

Kleiver blew out a stinking snarl that made his mustache tremble.

"Ya make that sound like a good thing. She's got ya dancin' to her tune too. Ya get that, right?"

"It's the only shot!" If the glasses had been put back up, they would have fallen again from Sig slamming his fist into the table. One of them rolled over the edge and shattered on the floor.

The waitresses exchanged glances and quietly decided to not say or do anything at all about it.

"Okay, okay, chill yer lizards." Kleiver pulled a face as if he had to wrench out the next sentences. "I'll meet ya partway, alright? You pay sixty, I pay forty."

Sig straightened and studied the other Wastelander for a moment. Coming from Kleiver, it was a very surprising and very generous offer.

"You––"

"Ya better be right about her, ya hear me?" Kleiver stabbed the air in front of Sig's face with a thick finger. "'Cause if this comes crashing down, it'll be your fault our heads'll be on a platter." He threw up his hands. "Whot? Ya think Damas'll be any happier with the guy who got ya that Black Shade so you could suck up to Krew?"

Sig's mouth twisted into a chilling snarl, silently warning Kleiver to make any comment about how he'd said from the start that searching for Prince Mar was a waste of time. The truth about that burned on Sig's lips, but he couldn't share it. Damas had forbidden it.

Leaning back, Kleiver rolled his eyes and waved his hands in a sort of pacifying manner. It was enough to help Sig get a grip of himself and nod.

"Alright then," Sig said. His good eye darkened again. "An' don't you breathe a word about this to anybody."

Kleiver raised a meaty eyebrow at the look of Sig's face and the low, dangerous tone.

"Whut? My ass is toast too if they all croak," he said.

"Even when they're in the clear, Kleiver!" Sig growled. He leaned forwards, hands flat against the table. "She's using them all. I ain't gonna be able to look 'em in the face if they find out it's my fault."

He shook his head hard.

For a moment Kleiver watched him, taking in the scowl and tense jaw. Typically Sig, ever the big brother. Finding that he had gotten his friends into forced servitude hurt him more than he wanted to admit – and it showed all too well right then.

Their King would certainly not like it, either. Damas was proud, and Kleiver knew that few things pissed him off as much as backstabbing tactics. And Damas would not be happy to learn that his best warrior had been reduced to a racing monkey for a zealous mafia girl. It wasn't even a secret in Spargus that Jak had become much like a replacement for the son Damas had lost many years ago.

And if that best warrior/son surrogate died from poison, Kleiver very well knew that Damas would find out. And he'd have two axes to grind.

"Ya better not let nobody know it gets ya this bad, mama bear," Kleiver grimly said as he stood, but he gave Sig a light, reassuring punch on the shoulder as he passed.

Sig remained where he was for a while even after Kleiver had disappeared. Just sitting there, staring at his own reflection and the neon flashes dancing in the window glass. Until the waitresses nervously told him that it was closing time.


	2. Lock

Two weeks after Sig and Kleiver's discussion in that dingy restaurant, they could breathe out. Nobody but Sig even knew that Kleiver was as relieved about Jak's victory as the winner's team. And Rayn had the antidote ready just in time.

As he raised his own glass in a toast together with Jak and the others, though, Sig couldn't help but feel a niggling doubt. Why had she not handed out the antidote before the race, when she could clearly see that several in the group were beginning to feel the effects? It might have blown her cover, but by then she should have known that all of them were so far invested in the race that they wouldn't back out. At least, Jak wouldn't ever have, and he was the best of them.

And how had Mizo known about the antidotes? He must have, because why else would he have grabbed and raced off with them?

Nobody else seemed to question it, but Sig could see the obvious hint. She'd laid a trap for her enemy, and made sure that Jak had to pursue him.

Manipulative to the very end, and it sat ill with Sig. But then again, she would have to be like that if she wanted to survive.

Looking at his friends helped dispel the bad feeling. All of them together, smiling, talking, relieved. Torn and Ashelin even allowed themselves to hold each other in public. Samos was as restrictive with his praise and expressions of joy as ever, but he could not mask his pride for Keira, while she with every word and motion responded with a cheerful "I told you so." Well, as much time as she had to focus on her father, at least, with how she was busy sharing the good news with Tess, whose cheers came for all of them through Keira's communicator.

Daxter was flailing about talking and laughing about how he saved Jak from Mizo's exploding car, and how Mizo's goons must be scurrying for the boats like lizrats on a sinking ship. In between that, he argued with Pecker. Of course Jak hovered close by Daxter at all times, gently giving him a push when he almost tipped off his chair. Little touches exchanged between both of them, much like Torn and Ashelin, relieved that the other was still there.

They would all go home, safe and sound.

"Sig."

He looked around and put down his glass at the sight of Rayn. She smiled warmly at him.

"So sorry that I'm late, I had to take care of a few things," she said. When his eyebrows twitched, she shook her head and added in a low voice, "Nothing to worry about."

"Hey!" Daxter hollered. "We were wondering when you'd pop in!"

Still smiling, Rayn stepped away from Sig, walking closer to Jak she thanked all of them for their help. As she spoke, she absently setting the data disk she carried on the table.

"This town will be better for it," she promised, before turning to Jak.

Something about that struck a chord with Sig, but he was distracted by the sight of Jak giving Rayn a friendly hug. He'd never seen Jak do that to anybody before. In the background, Daxter plopped his chin on a fist and threw a quick, mock-jealous grimace, but he let that little moment pass.

With a nod to them all, Rayn turned to leave.

"Be better than your father," Sig said. He knew it was wishful thinking, but he thought it needed to be said, and out of everyone present, he felt like he ought to be the one to make that comment.

Rayn met his eye and brushed her hand against his as she passed him. Something slipped in between his fingers and he looked sharply after her, but she disappeared out the door and was gone. Looking down, he saw that she had given him a small piece of paper.

"Hey, she forgot Krew's diary," Daxter commented and reached to pick it up.

But instead he pushed a button and the living image of Krew's at his most smug, smirking self flared up in the bar's air to deliver a punch to the gut to every last one of them. Revealing that they'd been had. For a moment Sig's insides froze, thinking that Krew would reveal his part in it, but he did not.

"Like father, like daughter, eh?"

In that stunned first moment, when everyone else stuttered their disbelief, Sig felt his heart sink. None of them looked at him as he unfolded the message from Rayn.

_**We have business to discuss. Come see me.** _

And an address.

" _Like father, like daughter, eh?"_

The words spun around in his mind.

* * *

A few hours later found Jak and Daxter pretty much alone in the Bloody Hook, as the night wore on and the party – browbeaten by the ugly truth – had dispersed to digest and do away with the bad taste that had fouled their victory. The boat back to Haven wouldn't leave until noon the next day, though, so the Demolition Duo didn't worry about going to bed. Just sitting by the bar in each other's company, one as loud as always, one hardly saying a word.

Waiting, perhaps, for some other sign from Rayn to reassure them that things weren't so bad after all.

Of course that didn't happen.

What did happen was that somebody else walked in and ordered a drink, rousing the bartender momentarily from her idle glass polishing. Somebody in a red jacket, who headed straight for the two young men as soon as he had his drink.

"Hello, loser. Here to mope?" Daxter said, grinning from ear to ear.

"No, just looking for a good time," Razer responded. He sat down one stool down and lit a cigarette, easy smile unsuitable for somebody who was standing on top of a sinking ship.

"Look elsewhere," Jak grunted, glaring his warning. Daxter took the cue to slink over on the other side of the blond, to get a hero between himself and the former champion. Even though he had to fight the urge to stay and keep himself between Jak and Razer, instead.

The way that Razer eyed Jak, starting from their first conversation and onwards, made Daxter's fingers twitch. And he knew that Jak didn't like it _at all_ , but he wasn't going to let it show. Being protective helped.

"And here I was going to thank you for getting me a free evening," Razer said, plucking the cigarette from his lips to watch Jak with his eyelids just the slightest bit lowered. Curious. _Interested_ , in more than a weakness to exploit on the track. It took all Daxter had, to not throw his drink at the guy. "It doesn't happen often. I've been Mizo's man for… too long."

"Well, I would'a figured you'd be on a boat speeding out of here by now," Daxter said, seeing that Jak didn't want to respond.

Razer blew out a cloud of smoke and watched it spread into the already heavy air. He threw a glance at the bartender from the corner of his eye, and the woman wisely backed further away.

"I wouldn't reach the shore alive," he said and sipped his drink, staring off at nothing. "The dear Miss Rayn wouldn't let me."

Jak straightened.

"Rayn wouldn't—"

He cut himself off and squared his jaw. They had all been made to see that they had not known her at all, in the end. Nobody could decide what it meant, that she actually left the data disc behind so that they could find out the truth. It didn't make sense – Ashelin's guess that it was a definite good-bye was the best they could come up with. Ashelin appeared to be satisfied with that explanation, choosing to rejoice that they would soon leave this neon lit whumpbee nest forever – a sentiment shared amongst the racing troop. They could all shake it off, move on, and don't care anymore. In time.

Daxter only cared because he could see how angry Jak was about the betrayal. His trust was too easily gained, sometimes. Nobody else was as surprised, not after the first shock.

The redhead's foot gently tapped against Jak's beneath the edge of the bar. After a moment, Jak returned the slight bump. Then, to Daxter's dismay, he turned his head towards Razer.

"Is she going to be worse than Mizo were?" Jak asked in a low voice.

Razer shook his head, holding his drink up by his fingertips along the rim. The ice cubes daintily clattered against the glass and each other.

"I couldn't say," he told the drink. "Of course… her problem, which will unfortunately be our problem, I assume, is that as a young lady she will have a lot of proving to do to get started. Which means that she will need to do things in a nastier way. And she'll need weight behind her, which is why I'm not getting away – one way or another."

There was no humor or warmth in his smile. Jak shook his head, staring at the drink in front of him, and only Daxter knew that he also sighed.

"But what do we know, yet?" Razer suddenly said, turning his head towards the duo and giving a slanted smile. "She might just as well take better care of Kras than Mizo ever did."

No reply, though Daxter tried to coax some reaction out of Jak by staring at him. It should be Jak's line here, he had to try to say something to prove that he wasn't the least bothered about it, and didn't do something stupid like wonder if it was his fault. Which they couldn't honestly say it wasn't… but then, Jak wasn't the only one who'd helped her rise to power. And it wasn't like they'd had a choice.

"Yeah, well, at least she won't be shouting at the whole city from every TV screen in existence," Daxter finally said to fill the silence.

No verbal reply, but Razer's eye roll and smirk said that he did think that that was an improvement.

This conversation was ruining the last hour of cheering Jak up and distracting him, so Daxter decided that the only way out was to change the subject. So he did, unfortunately unaware of where he steered them.

"Anyway, former hotshot," Daxter said and smirked at Razer's dry look at him past Jak, "since we're on sorta non-enemy terms for the moment, mind if I ask about the name?"

The pause before the response was almost too short to notice. But it was there.

"My name?" Razer said, perfectly calm.

"Yeah, see," Daxter went on, blindly heading straight into a minefield, "all of ya goons came in a set. It's not Racer like _zoom!_ " He made a sweeping motion with his hand. "It's 'Razor cuts to the bone', isn't it? And all your buddies are named after sharp things too."

Razer said nothing, just watched Daxter and let him go on. Jak looked up somewhere in the middle of all of this, glancing between the two of them.

"I know your ex-boss was a few cars short of a garage, but it seems way out there to hire people based on their mamas and papas' taste in baby names," Daxter finished up.

Silence.

Razer took a deep draw of the cigarette, making it flare up as the final bit was consumed.

"Very perceptive," he said, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he crushed the remains of the cigarette in a conveniently placed ashtray. "We had a laugh when Kleiver joined up. It was such an amusing coincidence."

"Really? 'Cause for a second I thought that was the only reason he got into your club."

"You really could think so, yes."

Razer took out another cigarette and absently knocked the butt of it against the bar.

"The name," he went on, looking at both of them evenly, "is not the name my parents gave me, but it's my name." Turning his head slightly and closing his eyes, he took out a lighter and lit the cigarette. "You may have gathered that Mizo was a bit of a control freak, who loved his power trips."

And he looked Jak in the eye and, for a moment, seemed to know everything – understand how it was to be trapped in the dark and given a number instead of your name.

"What's your real name, then?" Jak heard himself say, numb and unable not to ask. In the background, Daxter was still wincing.

"Razer," Razer replied, with a bland smile. "It's far too late to change, now."

The cigarette painted a delicate wisp of smoke as he gestured with it, waving their words aside.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he cut both of them off. "But there…" he leaned his chin on the back of his hand, the glowing end of the cigarette precariously close to his cheek. "… There was just one more person who ever asked about it, actually."

The corner of his lips stretched a little as he watched Daxter.

"Is it the hair color that makes you stop and think?" he said. When they stared at him, uneasy, creeping realization struggling not to dawn in their eyes, he gave a final push. "Oh come on, now. I've seen the footage of your race against him, Jak."

Jak's fingers squeezed his glass so hard that his fingers turned white, and Daxter made a disgusted noise.

"Ah, there we are," Razer said, too amused all of a sudden. "Actually, I've been told that I can make a very good impression of him. Want to hear it?"

"No!" Daxter snapped.

"Oh my, maybe I _should_ have tried that during the races. You look like you would've gone off the road."

"Did you race him?" Jak's sudden, quiet question stopped Daxter's angry retort.

Slowly, letting out another cloud of smoke from his mouth, Razer nodded. After a second he took the cigarette from his lips and put it out in the ash tray, returning the half-smoked stick to his pack.

"Years ago, yes," he said, turning on the chair so that he didn't have to twist his neck to look at the two of them anymore. "Officially, it was a friendly race between the champion racers of Haven and Kras." His lips quirked. "Unofficially, the Commander was here to try to find out who Mizo was. The late Baron Praxis wanted to have a piece of information that Krew would kill for."

Daxter shifted, wanting to cut it off, but Jak moved his hand the slightest bit in a signal to wait. That primal, ever revenge-seeking part of him found itself mesmerized with the question of how that race had gone. If that meant that he had to listen to Razer talking about Erol first, he could handle it – for a little bit, at least.

"Mizo knew that, of course, and he knew I was the best person to keep the Commander busy and waste his time – and keep my mouth shut."

Razer's mouth twisted into an unamused sneer.

"Most days Mizo said you're a racing champion, and sometimes he said you're a hooker," he said.

His eyebrows twitched as he said that, not from his own words but from the effect it had on Jak. Daxter saw Razer's reaction and knew what he saw – those wide, blue eyes had never been able to hide a thing, and Daxter knew that he himself only felt half the disgust roiling through Jak in that moment.

It surprised both of them that Razer didn't comment on it. Instead, he shrugged.

"Well, the thing was… Erol's orders were to get information out of me, by any means possible." He snorted. "I know it sounds strange that we… mostly… got along well. It's quite easy to bond when you're both so very angry at your superiors."

"Yeah, well, spare us the details. Cut!" Daxter waved his hands about, glaring murder at Razer for going there in the first place.

Razer raised an eyebrow.

"Not even about how I called him a prostitute to his face?" he asked in a smooth tone.

Daxter's hands fell. So did his jaw. And Jak's too, for that matter. Razer watched them, raising a hand to his lips as he gave a low, soft chuckle.

"How…" Daxter managed, eventually. "How are you still alive?"

"With style, I suppose you could say." Razer chuckled again. "And he started it."

* * *

It had been an eventful day. He wasn't surprised that Erol was angry. Erol was always angry, that much Razer had learnt very quickly, but usually the anger was an ever present undercurrent of everything the man said and did. It didn't control him.

Usually.

In retrospect, he could have been a bit more perceptive, and counted on the Commander having more skills than expected. Even though he was taller, and bulkier, Razer hardly expected to be able to win against Erol in a fight – the much smaller man was built for speed and had military training. He'd have plenty of counters to the motions of one raised on rough street brawls.

Razer had kept that in mind, as well as Erol's intelligence, which had forced him to guard every word more carefully than usual at all times.

He had not, however, considered the idea that Erol might be a pickpocket. Which was why Razer now found himself against the wall with his own butterfly knife to his throat.

Part of him had to marvel at the Commander, though. Perhaps a larger part than he wanted to admit. Erol had launched on him before the door even closed behind them, dragging him into a rough, furious kiss that demanded repayment for what had transpired a few long hours earlier – excruciatingly long with speeches and celebration and useless handshakes and Blitz's grinning face mere inches from getting smashed in.

But Erol had taken a second to tear away and close the apartment door. Razer had noticed it but not taken the chance to bolt. He knew he wouldn't get away, and it'd only get worse. And he was curious, morbidly, foolishly. Then Erol launched on him again, tearing at the red jacket and Razer helped shake it off, taking a calculating step away in case there would be blood splatter.

He always planned for the worst. Knew he at least had his knife if he'd need it.

Or so he had thought.

He wasn't sure, afterwards, if Erol played a part or if it was honest, the single-minded way in which he tore up Razer's shirt, and kissed, and bit. If it was just a part, then it seemed odd that he let Razer's lightning-quick fingers undo the zipper on the Commander's jacket and the buttons of his shirt. They had done this before, however this time Erol was fueled by more rage than lust.

And then Erol shoved Razer against the wall, and suddenly he had the butterfly knife.

"If you wanted to play with that, you could've just asked," Razer said, but he dropped the smooth, seductive tone he would have normally used for a phrase like that.

"Enough!"

The knife pressed harder, enough to let Razer feel his own thundering pulse against the thin, icy edge. He didn't quite manage to hold back a wince, but did not look away from Erol's thinned predator eyes.

"I don't have time for this," Erol snarled. "And don't think I won't slash your pretty face to ribbons if you try to be sassy!"

Playing dumb would be very foolish and very painful. Razer raised his hands a little bit in a pacifying motion.

"Alright, alright," he murmured. "I'm listening."

"No listening. Talk. You know why I'm here."

Razer pressed his palms against the wall. Not his wall – not his apartment. Just something set up to look the part for the Commander, so as to not give him even that grain of truth. And there would have to be another lie.

"Erol. I don't know who Mizo is," Razer said, calmly, holding the glare from the yellow eyes. Erol studied him, unblinking, waiting for a continuation. "He only communicates through distorted recordings of himself."

"I don't believe you." And yet he stood still, only his lips quirking into a scornful sneer. "Are you really that loyal to somebody who doesn't even let you keep your name?"

Razer's eyebrows twitched at the sudden question.

"You noticed. Why, I'm touched."

He got a shove for that.

"I said no sass!" Erol growled.

Razer would have wanted to sneer and make a "Touchy, touchy…" comment, but didn't feel like pushing his luck.

"Listen," Razer said. "Mizo is everywhere in this city."

It was the first time Erol's glare left Razer's face since putting the knife to the older man's throat. A suspicious glance ran across the wall and ceiling, towards the adjacent rooms. Then back.

"Even if I knew, and let it slip," Razer said, "you don't have time to do anything worse than what he'd put me through."

"I could kill you."

"So would he, if I don't do what he says." He dared a small smirk. "Some such things are better than others."

"You're a goddamn whore."

"And you're not?" Razer shook his head and quickly added, as Erol's eyes thinned further, "Our bosses have wasted both of our time, I think."

He felt the pressure of the knife relent as Erol scoffed.

"You didn't seem to think it was a complete waste," the Commander commented.

"I cannot lie to you," Razer said, smoothness returning to his voice as he lied through his teeth. "Now, a question for you, Commander."

Razer reached up and ran his fingertips feather light along Erol's arm. Erol shifted involuntarily, eying the other man. There was a crack in the defense, though.

"Would you like to play with the knife?"

They watched each other. Erol smirked, and Razer returned it.

Later, as Erol left to head back to Haven, he would take note of the inescapable TV screens showing reruns of the races, and Blitz's grinning face. And he would remember that thing Razer said about Mizo being everywhere in Kras City.

It was Razer's little revenge.

Erol's revenge was that he didn't pass that on to Baron Praxis.

* * *

"Well, you did call him… but that's cheating," Daxter commented.

He had yelled "Cut!" several times during the brief recount, again and again making Razer spare them details about the discussion with Erol. The bartender was throwing the trio strange looks.

"Perhaps, but I will still count it as a victory," Razer said. He studied his glass, which he had been sipping at throughout the story. Only a thin line of alcohol remained, along with the ice cubes that lazily slipped against each other. "Well, suppose I must be off. I expect somebody will call me about a date at any moment."

Saying so, he drained the last of the drink and set the glass onto the bar counter as he slipped off the stool. With just a flick of his hand as goodbye, he shifted his weight to turn around and leave.

"Razer," Jak said.

"Hmm?" the older man said, stopping.

Jak stood up to face him, though of course Razer had to look down to meet his gaze.

"You don't have to stay," Jak said. "Rayn can't get you if you're on the boat with us tomorrow."

For just the briefest moment, Razer looked surprised. But then it vanished as he softly snorted and shook his head, eyes closed.

"There is nothing for me anywhere else," he said, turning to leave. "But you _are_ a darling for offering."

Daxter groaned at the compliment, but Jak didn't even acknowledge it. When he spoke, it was as if he hadn't even heard it.

"How did your race against Erol end?"

Razer looked around with a shrug.

"There are recordings, and they're easy to find if you want to see them," he said.

"I'm asking you," Jak shot back, eyebrows lowering.

For a moment it looked as if Razer would just slip out and leave them hanging, but he paused with his hand on the door.

"The way you race in Haven," he said, "you'd say it's very different from combat racing, yes?"

Looking back at those first races, Jak had been very glad that he had practice from the Wasteland with having wheels on the ground, and with shooting while driving. He nodded, mutely. And Razer gave that smug sneer he hadn't shown since the Blue Eco cup.

"Well," he said, "let's just say that the late Commander was so very, very angry with me for a reason."

With that, he disappeared into the night.

He walked along, gazing up through the neon halos of the street lights and advertisement boards. It was a quieter hour than usual, brief as it was. There were still plenty people out and about as well as cars zooming past on the road, but there was a confused tension in the air that was almost tangible. The conversations were not as loud, the honking of car horns from near and far sounded quick and fearful rather than annoyed.

He didn't really have any particular place to go, hadn't for the whole day. All of his associates were either hiding or fleeing as best they could, or waiting it out like he was. Some more resigned than others. Razer didn't really feel much at the moment. He'd thought that the world would feel more rocked off its pillars the day Mizo died, but after the Blue Eco cup he had found himself waiting for it. Mizo had been furious, and he'd have to make a move.

Having butted heads with Jak on the racetrack, Razer had seen that Mizo could very well meet his match.

And now what?

Rayn was an unwritten story, and at the moment everyone was scrambling to figure out what was happening. Not all the families would accept her readily, but she'd had supporters even before the races. Without friends, she'd have been dead long before she could rope in Jak and the others to help her win the bet that her father had made.

Not having met Krew, Razer still had to admire his ability to plan ahead.

He wandered on, until he realized that he was being followed. It was just a feeling of being watched, then an occasional glance over his shoulder revealed that a tall shadow was tailing him. Didn't try to be very sneaky about it, either.

So it was going to be like that, after all?

He slipped into an alleyway and waited, hand drifting over the pocket where his butterfly knife was. If it came to that, he at least had enough dignity to not go out without a fight.

A huge silhouette blocked out the street lights outside the alley.

"You have a meeting with Rayn," a deep, rumbling voice said. It was more of a growl.

Razer squinted at the shadow and tilted his head to the side as well as up. The snarl unnerved him, because he wasn't stupid, and yet he had a strange feeling that the underlying rage wasn't aimed at him. The moment he made out the silhouette, that feeling grew stronger.

A spark of intrigue flared up.

"Hm," Razer said. His hand drifted to his side to rest at his hip. "I wasn't expecting you."

There was no response. With his jaw set so tight it hurt, Sig waved at the former champion to follow him.


	3. Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to spargusfastestracer on tumblr for helping me come up with a name for Rayn's aide. He was this close to being called Aiden, tho'.
> 
> Razer's last name is an homage to Nashidesei, who thought of it in the olden days. It somehow even ended up on fanifiction.net's "Characters involved in this fanfic" pick-list by mistake. Oops.
> 
> It's German for "danger."

Like most cities – Spargus had proven to be a surprising exception, once Razer had actually visited it for the championship – Kras had different sections for different kinds of people. The borders weren't always obvious for the uninitiated. Mostly it showed in how the houses were built. They were all apartment buildings, of course, because Kras had limited space to work with and villas were therefore out of the question, but balconies were a good sign that you had left the slum far behind you.

The bars called themselves restaurants, and there were fewer neon signs. The music changed from pounding to more refined tunes played with violins, and there was less drunk singing and laughing. Here, the really bad stuff – in some ways worse than in the slums – went on behind closed doors and lowered shutters.

The traffic didn't change much, of course. But here, Sig stood out like a sore thumb, even though he wasn't wearing the armor Razer had seen him in when he first appeared in the city in the middle of one of Blitz's mocking interviews with Jak's team. It wasn't his skin color – though that certainly contributed – but rather the way he moved. Everyone else clung together in groups, seeking cover from the fear of being mugged. They were also far better dressed. Suspicious stares followed the rough giant of a man that stomped up the street.

Razer found himself amused by it. As far as he could tell, people hardly noticed that he was following the strange intruder. He would normally at least be recognized as a famous racer, but his air and appearance also made him fit in better in areas like this. Mostly because he felt right at home here. Mizo had been generous in that way – and it had suited a champion.

Of course, Razer felt just as at home in the seedier areas too. That hadn't required training.

Sig didn't say a word the whole way, and while Razer felt tempted to throw a few teasing jibes at the man out of habit, the big Wastelander wasn't his type. His mind was also a bit too preoccupied with contemplating what waited for him at the other end of this walk – and wondering why the Wastelander was fetching him there anyway. He only needed to look at his guide to know that there would be no answers given, however. Experience also told him that it may be safer to stay ignorant.

A few blocks into the area, Sig stopped by one of the big apartment houses and punched in a long code to open the gate. It led into a dark hallway that automatically lit up when they entered. The elevators were both in use, and Sig didn't stop to wait for them. Instead he just went for the stairs, and Razer followed with a shrug.

Two flights of stairs later they entered a corridor with numbered doors at fair distances from each other, hinting at the sizes of the apartments. Sig strode down the way and stopped by one of the doors, where he knocked and then took a step back so that he was clearly visible through the peeping hole.

A few seconds passed, and then the door was opened by a thin, middle-aged man with a notepad in his pocket and a pair of thin glasses balancing on his nose. He looked like what one would get when taking every cliché about rigid female secretaries and gender-bending them.

He gave Sig a nod, then looked outside and gave Razer a pleasant smile.

"Welcome, Sir. Miss Rayn is looking forward to seeing you. I'm her aide, Chilton."

Razer made a non-committal sound. The man exuded an air of snooty stuffiness that, with just a glance, made the racer feel bored.

Chilton glanced back to Sig and made a motion at him.

"Show him in."

With a grunt, Sig entered and Razer followed, passing the aide without a second glance. Inside, the apartment was of the typical stale, functionalist Kras style, with a long straight corridor with rooms along the way, facing each other. The two men headed down the corridor towards a door in the back.

Everything from wall to ceiling was painted or draped in soft, gentle colors and the paintings on the walls depicted only pleasant landscapes and flower arrangements. There was an atmosphere of elegance to everything.

However, the floor creaked something awful – just the fact that it was made of wood said something about the cost of the place. In this steel and concrete city, natural materials did not come cheap. And a creaky floor also doubled as a safety insurance, making it harder for intruders to perform a surprise attack.

Mizo had kept tabs on Rayn, of course, and kept Razer informed enough for him to know that this part of the city had not been their rival's home turf before. But now she had taken a leap upwards, and she had moved in very quickly, yet efficiently. There was not a painting on the wall that tilted the slightest bit, every potted plant in every room placed perfectly. If he hadn't known she'd lived in simpler quarters before, Razer might not have picked up on the air of a new home.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Sig knocked on the door with quite a bit more force than necessary.

Razer noted that there was an indentation in the wall, at just the right height for a punch mark. He glanced up at Sig, and pondered the fact that there was most likely concrete behind the wallpaper.

"Enter," came Rayn's voice from the other side of the door.

Sig pulled it open and stepped inside and to the side. When Razer had entered, the Wastelander closed the door behind him.

All things considered, Razer had half expected Rayn to stand by the window, sipping tea from a flowery cup. Instead, she stood behind a neat wooden desk set in the middle of the room, upon which heaps of paper and writing material laid lined up. Arms neatly folded, a businesswoman's smile on her lips. The heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, so that only the electric light from the ceiling illuminated the room – not that it would have made much difference, as the outside was dark and lit only by the neon signs and streetlights. It did give the room a claustrophobic atmosphere, however, despite the nice, soft carpet and light colors on pretty much everything.

It was clearly an office, what with the desk being the main piece of furniture, and the bookshelves lining the walls – not filled with books, but ring binders.

Razer stopped a little ways away from the desk, keeping the piece between him and Rayn.

"Welcome," she said. "Thank you for not smoking."

"I put that off during important meetings," he replied with a smooth smile. He cocked his head to his side. "So. Now how should I interpret your signals when you bring me into your home like this?"

"I'm not one to waste talents such as yours, Mr. Gefahr," Rayn said.

Razer's eyebrows twitched.

"My, my, you are a very talented woman yourself, to have dug that up," he said. Then he chuckled and shrugged. "I am not so rude as to make assumptions about having a choice in this matter."

"I'm glad that we understand each other." Rayn walked around the desk, and the two of them shook hands. She smiled pleasantly up at Razer. "I welcome you informing me about things you liked and disliked about your last employer. I prefer to have satisfied employees."

The floor creaked behind Razer's back, and he could easily imagine Sig shifting his weight. Even that somehow seemed to convey quiet fury, and Razer felt certain that it wasn't just his imagination. Whichever was the case, it did earn Rayn's attention. She took a step to the side so that she could look straight at the Wastelander.

"Ah yes," she said, as if just remembering that he was even there. "You may go. But be sure to follow your instructions, understand?"

"Yes, alright," Sig growled as he turned to leave.

"What was that?" Rayn said, her voice hard as steel.

Sig flinched as if the words struck him like a lash. The glance over his shoulder was that of a furious, chained animal.

"Yes, _Miss Rayn_ ," he said through his teeth.

"Better."

The door closed behind Sig. A moment later there was a hard smash from the other side. Rayn shook her head and sighed as she sat down in her chair, absently gathering up a few of the papers before her. She knocked them against the desk to stack them up.

"No smart comments, if you please," she said without looking at Razer. "I assure you that I've got him under control."

Razer chose his words very carefully. It wouldn't do to make your new boss angry on the first day, after all, and he had a feeling that this was a very delicate subject.

"May I just advice a bit of caution?" he said, looking towards the door. "If pushed too far, he will leave a smoking crater behind."

"Oh yes, certainly." Rayn's lips twisted in a cool smile. "But it won't be anywhere but where I point."

Razer's eyebrows twitched, but he refrained from commenting on how she must have some amazing dirt on the Wastelander, since she was so confident.

"I'll take your word for it," he said instead in a diplomatic tone, and inclined his head towards the door. "I see there is no need to worry about heavy muscle."

"No."

Rayn flicked through the paper stack and then set it aside. Every move she made was measured and thoughtful. Businesslike. She was ice, where Mizo had been explosive and loud. It was something new, and Razer still wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. Mizo had made him seethe and clench his fist in his pocket on many occasions throughout the years – but was the devil you knew worse than the devil you didn't?

Well, if he wanted to keep breathing, he had better just hang on and go with it.

"Sig is worth five of Mizo's old muscle combined," Rayn said. She folded her fingers into a little platform and daintily rested her chin on it as she studied Razer. "Ten, if we're talking about intelligence."

"You're being unfair to him," Razer said with a soft chuckle.

Rayn responded with a little smile. It was an amused smile, which was good. But it was also a silent, merciless question. It wasn't difficult for Razer to catch on.

"If you wish to keep him from getting into fights with your own men," Razer said, "there are a few of Mizo's old guard that you don't want, and should probably weed out immediately. For example, Shiv and Edje might pass, but Cutter almost got a walking stick through his brain for getting into Kleiver's mechanic's face."

"A walking stick?" Rayn said, raising an elegant eyebrow.

Razer shrugged.

"The mechanic is a cripple, and has dark skin to boot," he said. "Cutter doesn't know when to quit about such things."

"Ah, well. That disqualifies him, especially under the current circumstances."

Rayn flicked through the papers again, took one out and put it beside the heap. Razer wasn't close enough to see what was on it, but it wasn't that hard to guess.

"Current?" he mildly said.

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid that there is no second chances given at the hiring process."

"I can't say I'll miss him," Razer said with a shrug. He glanced at the door. A concern that had been fizzling in the back of his head refused to be ignored any longer. "Offhand, however… isn't there a risk that our troublesome golden boy will come looking for his friend?"

The pause lasted hardly more a fraction of a second, but Razer still noticed it.

"There is no need to worry about Jak and the others," Rayn said. She only looked up as she continued, "I assure you that Sig will not want to be found."

Razer didn't press the issue, only giving an elegant, slanted smile and an understanding nod in response. Clearing her throat to make absolutely clear that that particular discussion was over, Rayn absently knocked the paper stack against the desk again.

"But let's forget everyone else for the time being, and discuss your position," she said.

They – or rather, Rayn – hammered out the basic practicalities after that. It pleased her that Razer made it clear that he fully understood his position, and did not make a fuss. Not that she presented any difficulties for him. He was too useful, too intelligent, and too much of a symbol of Kras City as the racing king, even after his recent losses. He was _theirs_ , after all. Jak might have won the latest championship, but he was an outsider. They'd get him next time.

Once Razer had all the information Rayn felt he currently needed, she sent him away. It was very late by then, and she sent Chilton home as well. He, of course, showed no sign of being tired or bothered by having had to wait on her for nothing but a goodnight. He left a tray with a pot of hot herbal tea, a waiting cup and a small plate with neatly sliced lemons, and went away with a polite nod and agreement to come in early the next morning.

Rayn waited until she had heard the apartment door close, then went to lock it herself. Returning to her office, she poured herself a cup of tea and squeezed a bit of lemon into the flowery cup.

She allowed a smile at herself. It had been a good day.

Of course, there was still a lot of work to do. To little surprise, not all the crime lords had been prepared to accept her father and Mizo's bet as a binding contract. It had been quite the discussion.

Some of the dissenters would have to be dealt with. But that was a concern for another day. The whole building was heavily guarded and she was already gaining strength. With Razer, a lot of manpower would follow simply because a lot of Mizo's men had nobody else to turn to.

And then there was Sig.

She set the cup aside and opened a locked drawer in the desk, pulling out one of the many data disks her father had left her. All of them contained advice, plans, or as with the "will", ways to help her climb. This one, too, was special.

It took a little while to write in the password, since it was nearly thirty symbols long. Finally the little light above the keypad turned green, and she pushed the "Start" button, just as she had done many times before.

The data disk made a whirring sound, and she placed it on the desk.

With a soft blip, a flash of light came from the small projector and a transparent image of Krew appeared in the air, taking up a large amount of the space in the room. He threw out his arms in a bombastic greeting gesture, starting off with a big grin for the first couple of sentences.

"Hello, Sig. I'm going to assume that you're not listening to this while on the run from Mizo with my little Rayn." Krew's eyebrows lowered and his voice became a guttural growl. "But if you are, you had better take good, good care of her."

He swept around in a wide arc, circling the now empty spot on the carpet where Sig had stood earlier in the evening. Sig hadn't let Krew get behind him even though it was just a recording, turning to follow his every sweep. Hands clenching, ready for a useless strike that was never delivered. Until he left the room and punched the wall, at least. Rayn sighed at the memory of that. They would have to talk about that kind of behavior.

"Mm, now then, in case things did not go as planned, I'm sure you already know I did prepare an antidote for both of you, just in case. You see, I couldn't possibly leave my little princess without a knight."

And a toothy smirk. Sig had just stared at him, eyebrows creeping lower and lower as his lips drew away from his tightly clenched teeth in a silent snarl.

"But!" Krew threw up his arms and did a playful little pirouette in the air. Rayn had always admired how her father could be so flippant about his physical condition, and used his technology to make himself so much more graceful than he could be without it. "Like I said, I expect everything went smoothly. But, even if you don't need to protect Rayn from Mizo, you will help her with everything else she wants. Oh no, no, no! Hold it right there."

He raised a plump hand heavy with rings.

"You watch that temper, old bean. Even if you smash this data disk, there are copies of the interesting part. Rayn has several, of course, but she doesn't even know where half of the rest are. And should anything happen to her…"

Krew's voice lowered to a dangerous snarl.

"… every last one will be sent out to people you'd prefer never found out about this."

He snapped his fingers and disappeared. Instead, a smaller image appeared of him, hovering in the air and looking at something. The sound of a door creaking open made him turn his head, and an image of Sig walked into existence.

"I have it," Sig said, pulling a bag from his belt. He opened it and drew out a pitch black flower on a long, slithering stalk.

Black shade.

"Flowers for me, 'ey?" Krew said with a toothy grin as he drifted closer.

He plucked the prize from Sig's hand and studied it, making sure that it was the real thing. Satisfied, he looked down on the silent Wastelander.

"I'm, mm, impressed you actually managed to get one." He smirked, nodding. "Good to see that I'm as good a judge as always. You _are_ an investment."

"Told you I can get any dirty job done," Sig replied with a slanted smirk.

The small images shattered and the full-sized Krew returned, rapping his fingertips against each other.

"Well Sig, I wouldn't put you through this for anybody but Rayn, you know that, 'ey?" He tilted forwards, his little eyes thin. "I'm sure we understand each other, from a business perspective."

He lingered like that for a moment before spinning around, suddenly smiling.

"Sorry about not putting a bow on him, Rayn dear," Krew said with a throaty chortle. "I'm afraid that he would resist that. Ah well…"

Rayn smiled sadly, feeling her heart swell at the familiar, smug grin her father sent her from the past. It was a winking grin for just the two of them, when he had something planned that he knew she would love.

"Well, my darling, he's all yours."

And with that, her father's image disappeared. A couple of seconds later, the data disk automatically switched off. Rayn picked it up and stood for a moment, just looking at it, before pressing it to her chest. He had truly planned for everything to give her a fair start, but the continuation she would have to spin herself. None of his gifts were light, and she would use every advantage he had offered.

True that she had thought him too soft at times, but then again it's quite natural for an ambitious child to want to surpass their parent.

Sig would never call her "kitten" again. She would have to live with that.

And so would Sig.


	4. Guilty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sig's tattoo is on his concept art for Jak X. Only "lif" is visible, and obviously more letters than E could fit, but let's go with "life" for the sake of discussion, eh?

_Jak made it. They're fine. Nobody died. They won't be angry enough that it's worth letting that viper have her way. She can't control me._

He had thought so, and the mantra had grown louder and louder in his mind the closer he got to home. The words of both Rayn and Krew burned in his memory, lighting not fear but an all-consuming rage. How dared they even think they had any power over him?

Rayn could reach out and spread copies of that recording as much as she wanted. It was no secret that he'd been spying on Praxis' Haven and needed a way in. People could grumble and Kleiver would get pissed about it coming to light because his part would be revealed too, but it'd be forgotten. Sig knew that the people that mattered the most would be surprised, but they wouldn't judge him. Rayn couldn't intimidate him.

But Damas could.

And Damas was unforgiving.

" _Poisoned_?"

And it just went downhill from there.

Sig had known that somebody would have to tell Damas the truth at some point, preferably as soon as possible – because the repercussions would be dire if the King found out too much later. Or more dire than they already looked.

Sig had also known that if he wanted to come clean with Jak and the others, there was no getting around coming clean with Damas as well.

But he never got further than revealing the truth of why his friends had taken part in the championship.

"She forced Jak to do her dirty work?! She had _all_ of them at her beck and call? If I ever get that little witch within arm's reach…! Vultures! All of them! _Poison_! Of all the disgusting…!"

Sig had never seen Damas so angry. He paced back and forth in front of the throne, words spewing out of his mouth, slamming the butt of his gun into the floor. Every hard clack and every single word hit Sig like waves of icy water. As he mutely watched his King, ice tendrils seeped into his heart to choke all the rebellious thoughts.

For a little while, Damas was so absorbed in his ranting about filthy, backstabbing tactics that he seemed to forget Sig. It didn't last, though.

Sig winced when Damas whirled at him.

There was no mercy for any accomplice in the King's eyes.

"Did you know? Did Kleiver know?" Damas stomped down the steps with murder in his eyes, jabbing a finger at Sig's chest as he held his gaze. Sig couldn't bear to see that fury, but he couldn't look away either.

"Not Kleiver. They told me," he said, voice sounding strange in his ears. It might have given away underlying truths to Damas, had he been in a normal state of mind, but the King was far beyond his usual cool, levelheaded self.

" _Why did you not tell me_?!"

Training alone kept Sig rooted in place. Afterwards, he wasn't sure how he had even managed to remain upright.

"Jak didn't want—," Sig managed.

Damas had his communicator in his hand before Sig even got to the third word, smashing down several buttons. There was a beep.

"Yes, Da—," came Jak's voice from the speaker.

"Get up here _right now_!" Damas snarled.

Just before he shut the communicator off, without waiting for a response, Daxter whimpering " _Oh_ _snap…_ " made it through the link. Sig's gut dropped as Damas's burning gaze returned to him.

"What were they poisoned with?" Damas demanded.

A dark, sick hope flared up.

"Night shadow," Sig lied. Damas paused and then grunted acknowledgement.

The name was similar enough to black shade that if mentioned, Jak and Daxter would probably not notice the difference. As much as he respected the two of them, neither one was a stickler for details. More importantly, it was a poisonous flower which – though now near extinct – had been native to a chain of islands near Haven. It had properties similar to black shade, and the antidote was just as hard to create.

If Damas learned that the poison had come from the Wasteland, he'd make the connection instantly. Really, it had surprised Sig that nobody else seemed to – but it could be that they had been too busy worrying to really think about it, after Ashelin explained about what her alchemists had found out about the wine bottle.

It in no way guaranteed that Damas would never find out, but it bought Sig some time.

As soon as Jak and Daxter appeared in the elevator – one with his face grimly set in stone, the other fidgeting, both bracing themselves in their own way – Damas dismissed Sig to turn his frustration towards a target that was closer to home. Despite the chaos in his own head, Sig had the presence of mind to give the boys a stiff, hopefully encouraging nod. Jak didn't even look up, completely focused on Damas. He tended to get like that when it came to the King, had been like that ever since the truth was revealed. Right then, though, it stung like a metal head stinger's barb.

Daxter gave a twitching, nervous little smirk, and then Sig was past them. He stepped on the elevator and pushed the button to take him down. The layers of the tall structure flew past in a blur before his unseeing eyes.

It was over.

Everything was over.

The familiar, sandy streets melded together before him as he stepped outside and began his walk. People everywhere, talking, exchanging goods. Together, with purpose. Familiar sights, familiar smells. His mind felt numb, and yet oddly open as every sense became heightened – the sounds, the sand slipping under his feet, even the tint of sweat and salty winds on his lips. Trying to take all of it in while he still could.

Afterwards, he wasn't sure how he got anything "productive" done. That he had instructions from Rayn helped – for better or worse. She had been very detailed. And even then there were parts he had to make his own decisions about.

Winning the championship had earned Jak a hefty price sum, which he had promptly split between all his competing friends. It wasn't exactly surprising, but it was a touching move. Ashelin and Torn refused out of sheer pride, of course, until Daxter dumped a bag of credits each on their heads once they all got off the ship to Haven. And then he and Jak ran off before they could be returned.

Sig had left his share in his apartment as soon as he got back to Spargus together with the Demolition Duo, before he went to see Damas. Now he returned there to fetch it, snatching it off the table without throwing a second glance around at the place that had been his own for years. The simple, undecorated two rooms with just a table and a couple of chairs, a box of tools for cleaning his equipment, a water urn and a sleeping mat.

The dry knocking sound of the door closing behind him as he left rung in his ears.

Absentminded, staring straight ahead as he walked, he pulled out his communicator and made a call to Freedom HQ, requesting that the air train that had brought him, Jak and Daxter back home would wait for him a little bit after it had refueled. The operator agreed in a bored voice, commenting that it wasn't a problem since the transporter needed some repairs as well.

He hoped he could avoid everybody he knew before he had to leave.

As soon as he entered the vehicle pit he spotted Kleiver, lumbering around yelling at a line of stone-faced mechanics for slacking off in his absence.

Sig had to call to Kleiver three times before the huge man noticed the intruder over his own shouting. The annoyance at being interrupted changed immediately when Sig made a motion to the bag he held, and Kleiver dragged the other Wastelander off to a more private corner of the parking area – to the obvious relief of the mechanics.

Arms crossed, Sig silently waited as Kleiver counted the money and took out what he was owed for the bronze camellia. There was still a fair bit left after that.

"Too bad for me hero boy is such a softie," Kleiver commented with a pleased grin as he handed the much lighter bag back to Sig. "Would'a been fun to have ya sweatin' it off for the next five years."

Sig forced a bland smile and grunted, because a lack of reaction would be suspicious. It wasn't a very good response, though – Kleiver peered at him for a second, but then just turned away and stormed towards the miserable mechanics for more verbal punishment.

For a moment Sig just stood there looking at the scene, with the ragged men and women standing there, some of them swaying and stifling yawns. Kleiver had obviously dragged everyone in, including those who worked the night shift, to take the abuse.

And then Kleiver finished off with a gruff conclusion that at least the place hadn't fallen apart, and since they had at least managed that much and he was thirsty for some real beer after weeks of that Kras piss, they should all go have a drink together. Clenched jaws loosened in grins and the line dispersed as the mechanics laughed, slapping Kleiver's back as they welcomed him back. He grinned too, and then led them off into the city.

Rough, rude and cruel, but not truly mean-spirited. Much like Spargus itself.

Sig fastened the bag on his belt and went to find his Sand Shark. It was nearing that time of the day when it got unbearably hot, and with the mechanics gone the car pit was nearly deserted. There was nobody who paid any heed to him driving out.

He needed a fight. Beneath the smothering bitterness, a sea of rage bubbled with no outlet. But no metal heads or marauders showed up to serve as stress relief. The drive towards the desert ruins was short, and it would have been boring if he hadn't been absorbed in gazing on the vast expanses of rolling hills of sand. The sun blasted down and painted the landscape in painfully bright colors, forcing him to squint. He flew across the sand, careening down slopes and past rocky outcrops and vibrant green cacti. Absently, he noted that it was almost time to harvest the fruit some of the prickly plants produced.

That particular sweet, hard-shelled fruit spoiled quickly after harvesting and were too difficult to preserve, so they represented a rare, yearly feast. It was one of the very few luxuries the desert readily offered.

But he would not be there for it.

Mountains rose up in front of him and he crossed one of the few streams in the desert. Then the pale shells of long abandoned houses came into view. There was a long story behind that village, a failed attempt at expanding Spargus many, many years ago. And plenty of legends, to boot. At least it still had purpose, since leaper lizards loved the place and that made it easy to catch new ones.

Sig drove around it, up a hill where the cliffs offered shadow. There he parked and swung his legs over the side of the barebones cage of the car, resting his boots on the shaded, but still hot sand. The wind howled through the empty window holes of the dilapidated buildings, tossing little clouds of sand here and there. He could see movement down there, twitchy shadows ducking around, carefully looking for food. Lizards.

Even in the shade, the heat was stifling. Every breath tore at the moisture in his throat. First rule of being out in the desert was to not open your mouth more often than necessary, both because of the sand and because it drew more water out of your body. Daxter had always had trouble with that. Covering the mouth only helped marginally.

Sig unhooked his water flask and took a deep gulp from it.

There were things he had to do. He didn't want to go through with any of it, and that made it difficult to decide where to start. But he had to begin somewhere.

Putting the flask down, he reached under one of his pauldrons and opened the latch. The metal head skull slipped off his shoulder and into his grip. He looked at it with all its scratches, and the eye sockets seemed to glare back. That kind of armor material wasn't a unique thing in Spargus, but in Haven it had made him stand out in an even more intimidating way. Krew had liked it that way.

Rayn did not.

It was insane doing this out here, but he had no choice. He couldn't do it in Spargus. Somebody would see him, and he refused to leave any part of himself in Haven.

He dropped the pauldron on the passenger seat and unlatched the other one. Standing up, he took his Peace Maker from his back and leaned it against the car so that it was out of the way.

Bit by bit he shed his armor. Even with the sleeveless shirt he wore beneath it and the rest of his clothes remaining, he felt naked once he had finished. The desert wind felt raw against his sweat matted skin.

Alright.

Next step.

He hunched forward for a moment, feeling nausea building in his gut. Sheer willpower forced it back, but it took him several minutes to gather himself enough to continue.

Gritting his teeth, he reached into one of the bags by his belt and pulled out his war amulet.

Just held it. Turned it over and over. Rubbed his thumbs over it, studying all the little kinks and indentations. He'd had it since he was fifteen, and had passed the tests to become a full citizen of the city he had grown up in. The city that would always come to his aid if he pushed the button on the amulet. There hadn't been many times when he had to activate it, but he wouldn't ever have gone anywhere without it.

Sighing, he looked up and stared off at the horizon.

The thought was there, to just disappear into the desert. But the mere idea of suicide was revolting to him, even when the alternative was a life of degradation. He was not yet that desperate, though a voice in the back of his mind said that he might very well become such, and wish he had been allowed to die in the Wasteland. He didn't want to think about that.

And if he didn't return to Kras like Rayn had decreed, she would make sure everyone saw that recording Krew had saved for her. Then Damas, Jak, Tess and everyone else would remember Sig as a traitor. He could at least live on as a better person in their memory.

He glanced at his right wrist, and pushed his glove upwards so that the simple tattoo became fully visible. "Life", emblazoned in his skin the day he'd earned his war amulet. It was a family thing. His mother had had the same when she met his father, who had liked it and taken it on, too.

He let the glove slip back, smoothening the rough cloth over the single word.

Closing his good eye, he grasped the war amulet in both hands and ripped it apart, just barely managing to suppress a snarl. The hard snap burrowed through his brain.

Looking down, he saw two pieces still sticking together, the third one free apart from the wires that connected the combined beacon.

Rayn had only told him to toss it away. That made it obvious that she knew some basic things, but she didn't understand. He couldn't just throw it away. It was a device that could be used against Spargus, in the wrong hands. If marauders or any of the more intelligent metal heads got their hands on it, they could easily use it to set a trap.

He walked some ways away from the car and kneeled down, letting the broken amulet slide from his hands into the sand. Standing up, he returned to the Sand Shark and grabbed his Peace Maker.

The familiar flare crackled to life as he pulled and held the trigger. He waited for it to build to a furiously hissing ball of lightning, then released and watched it fly through the air. Sand flew in all directions as it struck the ground and exploded in a blinding flash, leaving a messy crater filled with warped lumps of molten sand. A burnt smell filled the air.

And all that remained of the war amulet was a twisted piece of slag. Sig waited a little while for it to cool enough to grab the remains from the small crater and bury the destroyed amulet in the sand. The next storm would unearth it, but it was something he needed to do.

With nothing else left, he bundled up his armor with a piece of rope and drove off along the mountainside. There was a cave opening nestled amongst the cliff, leading into a giant cavern that had to be occasionally cleaned out of metal heads.

It was also where, in a freak accident, Daxter had ended up transforming back into a human.

Just a little ways inside, the path was sharply cut through by a wide ravine. One needed a Dune Hopper to cross, but that wasn't Sig's intention. He drove up to the edge and stopped the car.

Stepping out of it, he grabbed his armor and, clenching his eye shut, threw it into the abyss. The sunlight did not reach very far in, and he imagined that the armor disappeared out of sight long before he heard the first, distant clatter echo up towards him. It rang out again and again as the armor slammed into rock and tumbled on and on into oblivion.

He was back in the car, revving up the engine before the sharp sounds from below had quieted.

As he drove, he called in to check on the air train, learning that it was just about ready to go.

Returning to the city, he parked his car and quickly returned outside. The car pit was still abandoned, and nobody called to him.

He'd have to wait in Haven for a few days before there would be another ship to Kras, he knew that. In the meantime he could just stay in the apartment he had there. He'd have to call Damas and lie that Freedom HQ wanted him for something for a week or two.

That would make it take even longer before anybody realized that he was gone.

He boarded the air train and it took off as he crashed on one of the benches inside, head dropping as he rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle.


	5. Cell

Mizo might have been a control freak when it came to his people, but his way of running practical things – outside of everything related to combat racing – had been careless at best. The many crime families answered to him, but as long as they didn't get in his way he let them do whatever they wanted.

Then again, everything seemed careless compared with how Rayn did things. It quickly became obvious to Razer that this was purely a business venture. Rayn had chosen her education in company management for this express purpose. She was going to have full control.

Razer hadn't expected to be privy to her long-term plans, but he'd been called to her office several times in the past few days to discuss things that had surprised him. He'd expected to be nothing more than a way to reel in the crop of Mizo's goons – who were still coming crawling in, and he brought them to Rayn whenever that happened. That alone was surprising at first, to both the thugs and to him. Rayn had her hands full, he knew that perfectly well, and yet she took the time to have an impromptu interview/briefing with every scarred, tattooed man or woman.

He had watched them shift and glance around nervously, uncomfortable in the lavish office, feeling just how out of place they were, but having nowhere else to turn, either. And he saw clearly that it was just another tendril of control that Rayn stretched out. She saw them, she learned their names, and she spoke softly and businesslike – the complete opposite of Mizo. It brought them off-balance and scared them, because it was something new and unfamiliar, and they instinctively felt that the delicate, polite little woman behind the desk was not to be trifled with.

Razer had to admit that it had been pretty funny to watch Shiv shift from foot to foot, awkwardly pawing at the torn remains of his ears and answering Rayn with hoarse, one word phrases. The man had kept glancing at Razer the whole time for some sign of what the hell was really going on, and had only gotten bland little smiles in return.

Edje fared better, but that was because the man was dumb as a brick and only ever did what he was told.

Cutter… wasn't around anymore. Along with several others who had – before or after the interviews – been deemed disagreeable.

Razer himself had found that he was suddenly in the position of an advisor, which was a dizzying change from Mizo's way of letting him roam free and doing whatever he wanted. Just being the pride of Kras, the retired champion until told otherwise.

Now he had to _think_ , all of a sudden. It was a strange turn of events, but he found it intriguing. Rayn had some very interesting ideas, too. On this particular evening he stood in her office and studied a list of statistics she had given him, while she pointed to a map of Kras and Haven, thoughtfully circling and drawing trade routes with her fingertips as she spoke.

Her long-term intentions, she explained, were to make Kras less dependent on the mainland. The last time Haven had got cut off from them had been trying. Kras had no shortage of eco – thanks to having started out as an offshore drilling platform, with a myriad of little ones around nowadays – but for food, when there was little trade to be had, all they had was fish. And that gets a little tiring without garnish.

Razer listened, and he agreed. He hadn't suffered much during the shortage, but even as a top dog, he had felt it. Had it been going on longer, there would have been serious problems. Of course it was on everyone's tongues back then and still in the back of the minds of anyone with half a brain, but he had never heard any feasible suggestions for a solution. They needed some creative new ideas.

And that was all that the two of them could conclude at the moment. Razer put the papers on Rayn's desk and watched her gather them up to put them away along with the map. Her lips were tight and her nails scratched at the documents. It was slight, but he was used to searching for weak points.

He had suspected that the food plans were a way to stall something she really didn't want to think too hard about, but had to face.

"So…" she finally said, returning to her chair and intertwining her fingers so hard that the skin whitened. "Our little issue with the rebels."

Razer nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

Things weren't going smoothly. Several crime families were proving difficult to subdue or seduce.

"We could start taking them out, but even if we're careful it will alert all of them," Razer said. "They're still not sure if they're scared of you enough to band together."

Rayn rapped her fingertips against the table, glaring at it. There had been a grave miscalculation on this subject, but she wasn't prepared to admit that just yet.

"They need a show of power," she said. Her fingers drifted over to the open calendar on the desk, and it didn't pass Razer by.

The princess was waiting for her knight.

He opened his mouth to voice another thought, when there was a knock on the door and he looked around.

"Yes?" Rayn called, a little more shrill than usual.

The door opened and Chilton nervously peeked inside, sensitive as a cat to the tense atmosphere.

"The Wastelander has returned," he said.

Rayn's mild annoyance at the disturbance evaporated.

"Bring him in and run along," she said, absently pushing the calendar aside. With a glance and a nod to the side, she silently commanded Razer to move over to the wall.

Razer wondered if it was really wise to have this meeting with just the two of them against the visitor, but he wasn't the boss. Also, his curiosity had been piqued ever since his first meeting with Rayn, though he had kept from asking any questions. He hadn't stayed alive for so long for nothing. Mizo had had a… soft spot for him, but somebody wondering too much and too loudly did not get to keep such a position.

Chilton withdrew and was only briefly visible as the door swung open and Sig walked in – every motion stiff as if he was being dragged forwards by somebody else's will and struggled against every inch. For every step the Peace Maker he held clacked against the floor much like a staff, like he needed it for balance.

The last time Razer had met him, he'd still been a Wastelander to the tips of his huge fingers, but now he wore only his racing gear. Even if he looked smaller without his armor on, Sig was still imposing. Razer hadn't focused much on the man during the championship interviews, but seeing that dark, bald head made him realize he'd never seen him without a helmet on.

His lips pressed unusually tight, Chilton reached out and pulled the door shut. Sig's fingers twitched at the soft click of it closing behind him. The creaking of the floor rung through from the other side as he walked away.

Rayn gave the newcomer a radiant smile.

"I'm glad to see you again," she said. "I trust you had a safe trip?"

Sig looked the other way, mute. He only turned the gaze from his one good eye back towards Rayn as she stood up from behind the desk and approached him. Still he didn't move.

"I have prepared quarters for you," she continued. "I hope that they will be to your liking."

Silently watching, Razer had to admit being impressed by Rayn's gall, madness or bravery – whatever it was that kept her from balking under the quiet fury in the green eye watching her.

"There's a lot of work to be done, though we have gotten started without you," Rayn just went on, as calm as anything. "Now that you're here, it'll make things much easier—"

She made a move as if to reach out to touch his Peace Maker. That finally elicited a response, as Sig jerked back.

Razer held his breath.

From where he was, he couldn't see Rayn's face very well. But he had a feeling that she smiled, amused. The hairs on Razer's arms stood on end.

Sig said nothing.

With a shrug, Rayn settled back as if nothing had happened. Any sign of the last day's concerns had disappeared, her movements light and airy.

"Ah yes, and…" She thoughtfully tapped her cheek with a fingertip, resting the finely manicured, teal-painted nail against her soft skin. "Neither one of us want you to be found, but you are, unfortunately, very recognizable. We will have to work around that. As a first precaution, I think we should give you a new name. As code, of course."

Sig's jaw twitched.

"You can call me whatever ya want," he said in a low, rumbling voice that made Razer instinctively shift his weight. "But don't go thinking I'll answer."

"What was that?" Rayn softly said.

Air hissed in through Sig's flaring nostrils.

"… _Miss Rayn_."

It took considerable effort on Razer's part to not reach for his butterfly knife. He stood stock still, every muscle tensed to spring as Sig and Rayn stared at each other – a huge war machine of a man and a delicate little fairy of a woman.

But that fairy was an evil one, straight from old folks' tales.

With a hard twist of his neck, Sig turned his face away so that only his mechanical eye remained visible, aimed at the wall. Rayn did not move, gaze steady. Holding him.

Whatever dirt she had on the Wastelander, Razer concluded as he carefully relaxed a little, had to be amazing. But unlike Rayn, the former champion was not so completely certain it would be a strong enough chain if tested too much.

"Very well, if it bothers you that much, we'll still call you Sig in private," Rayn said. Sig's fingers clenched even harder around his Peace Maker. "Moving on…"

She took a step back and looked him up and down, which he refused to acknowledge. Still watching in silence, Razer raised a lightly clenched fist to hide his smile. Rayn's motion and Sig's rigid expression reminded the racer of Jak's reaction to being scanned much the same way.

Rayn casually rested her elbow in her opposite hand, flicking her fingers like she was giving subtle conductor cues to an orchestra.

"Without your armor you don't stand out as much," she said, "but the cameras did zoom in on your face a few times during the championship. That eye thing, do you need it?"

"It scans for heat sources," Sig said through his teeth. "Can't take it out without surgery."

"Ah well. That could be useful, so we should keep it even if it's recognizable. But you must grow a beard. And hair." She added the last in a disapproving tone, pointedly looking at his shaved head, with its darker dusting of sprouting hair. "That looks simply barbaric."

"Ya didn't order a brute?" Sig grunted, glaring at the floor.

"No sarcasm, if you please." The last three words were like a whip crack.

Sig's jaw moved, but he said nothing more. At least she let him off about the title, this time. Allowing herself a small, annoyed sound, Rayn folded her arms.

"Work with me, Sig. I don't intend to make this any harder on you than it needs to be."

He looked away again then, because the look in his eye would say more than she could accept. But at his side, his already tightly curled fist began to shake.

"I will make sure that nobody finds you, in case our old friends come looking," Rayn said. "But you will have to do your part, as well. With this, just as with everything else I'll require of you."

No comment.

"Make sure you rest well tonight," Rayn said, a hint of anticipation creeping into her controlled voice. "Because we must begin striking very quickly tomorrow."

* * *

He couldn't sleep.

Even with the blinds and the curtains pulled over the windows, flashes of bright, colored light flared through the little cracks and flickered angrily on the walls. The flashes cast shadows across the room, making them jump around and trigger his well-honed instincts, causing his mind to jolt awake.

Even if he pulled the cover over his head, it didn't keep the sounds out. A steady stream of angry honks, laughter and drunk singing from the street drilled into his ears. He laid on his side and put the pillow over his ear, but it just slipped away. Tried to hold it in place, only to lose his grip as he began to drift off and it fell again, leaving his ear open to the noise.

Past midnight he staggered out of bed and into the bathroom to stuff paper into both ears, but even that seemed to muffle the sounds from outside only marginally. Even worse, he couldn't relax with one sense dulled like that. A nagging voice in the back of his head hollered that it left him vulnerable to a sneak attack.

Haven had been bad, but not this bad. And he'd had a purpose there, which had made it easier to bear being in that concrete cesspit.

And the lights and perpetual noise were just the troubles caused by outside factors.

He could try not to think all he wanted, but his mind refused to go anywhere but back to everyone and everything he had left behind. Went over them all one by one or in a chaotic whirl, remembering faces and phrases and events. More than anything else, he struggled to not wonder what they were doing right then.

It should still be a few days before they realized he was gone. He didn't want to imagine the reactions. Didn't want to ponder that they'd search for him. Part of him wished he could have left some message, but he had no clue what it should say. Any version of "Don't worry" would be a lie. And had he left a message, they might come looking even here. The mere idea caught the breath in his throat.

With no clues left behind, they should eventually assume he had died in the desert.

He tried not to think about how much that would hurt them. Damas would purse his lips and move on, counting off another valued soldier, but Jak and Daxter… and Tess, and…

Sig wrenched his thoughts off that route by throwing the blanket off of himself, so violently that it half tumbled to the floor. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a jerking motion, he planted his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face.

This got him nowhere.

He stood and paced the room, then continued out in the corridor that divided the chunks of the apartment.

It was the roomiest, and best furnished place he had ever lived in. Or rather, existed in. Everything prepared before he got there, not a thing that was his own – not even the clothes in the wardrobe. He'd only noticed that because the door was slightly ajar when he came in. He hadn't bothered to look much at anything.

The place looked no more pleasant to him in the dark than it had in the fading evening light. Neon pink, purple and green flashes flickered across the rooms and floors, cut off only by the hard shadows of furniture and the edges of the windows.

All the noise got in there too, of course.

If the bathroom hadn't been so small, he might have slept in there. There were no windows in that room.

In the kitchen, his new communicator sat on the table where he had dumped it. Brand new and without a scratch, unlike the weather-worn and often-repaired one he'd used for years. It was also modified so that it could only take calls, not make them. Rayn didn't want to take chances that he'd change his mind in an unguarded moment.

He mechanically opened the fridge, finding it fully stocked. Apart from bottles of carbonated water and juice, there were packs of pre-cooked meals, enough for at least a week. The expiration dates said they would stay fresh for longer than that, which gave a hint of the levels of preserving chemicals in the food.

His stomach churned at the sight and he closed the fridge again.

The cupboards were less stocked, but there were still more plates, glasses and mugs than he'd ever need. He closed the doors after only a glance. Turned on the tap and splashed water into his face, then cupped his hands and gathered up water to drink. It had a faint aftertaste of disinfectant. Not surprising. Rayn – and probably everyone else from Kras – had been lugging bags full of water bottles on the trips to Haven and Spargus for the championship. One sip of lukewarm oasis water would probably have made the lot of them keel over.

Again his thoughts went there. Fighting it was pointless, really.

He'd have to eat something eventually. There had been a meal on the ship from Haven, he vaguely recalled, but he wasn't sure what it had been. Anything would've tasted like cardboard, anyway. The food Rayn chose for him though? He already had to live in her world and breathe her air and follow her orders.

It struck him that she hadn't said a word about paying him.

It wouldn't surprise him in the least if she thought that room and board was well enough, or even ideal. She'd made it abundantly clear that his own wishes were undesirable. He still had some of the leftover prize money Jak had shared, but the bulk of it had gone to his ship ticket. For a week or two it might let him eat things he chose for himself, but even that thought didn't manage to coax any appetite.

He stepped out of the kitchen and stood in the corridor for a moment. Drunk laughter, shouting, screeching wheels and roaring engines, coming from near and far. Incessant neon flares. Disturbances finding their way through the rooms.

It was such a simple solution, but his frustrated, distracted brain hadn't been able to come up with it before. He walked down the corridor and closed the door to the living room filled to the brim with armchairs, a huge TV on a fancy bench and other things he didn't care about. Then he walked back and closed the door to the kitchen stuffed with food and cutlery he didn't want.

Finally he went and pulled the mattress from the bed, blankets and all, and threw it on the corridor floor. Once he shut the bedroom door, the noise became muffled and the colorful flashes were cut off. They were still there, creeping through the edges of the doors, but it made a big difference.


	6. Enforcement

Even though Sig got out of bed far later than he normally would, he was met with a haggard glare from red-shot eyes when he glanced at himself in the mirror. He felt worse than he looked. Mechanically, he cleaned himself with the soap and towels that were stocked in the bathroom. There was also a stupid amount of shampoos and – something that made a vague feeling of disgust rise in his throat – an array of colognes.

A razor laid on a shelf inside the cupboard behind the mirror, and he automatically reached for it. Then he remembered Rayn's instructions about his appearance, and he slammed the small door shut so hard that the glass rattled.

Gritting his jaw he went into the kitchen, not hungry in the least but knowing he had to eat something. The packaged meals looked no more appetizing in the dusty morning light, but there was also some yoghurt in the fridge, and he found a box of cereal in a cupboard.

Somehow he managed to force half a bowl of breakfast down his throat, when every spoonful felt slimy and tasteless in his mouth. He left the half-finished "meal" on the table and went into the bedroom he hadn't slept in. His clothes lay in a careless pile on a chair. There were new, clean clothes in the wardrobe.

He pulled on his own clothes, putting off at least one of Rayn's choices for a little while longer. A voice in the back of his head predicted that it wasn't going to be a successful revolution, but he refused to acknowledge it.

The sun still hadn't risen, and wouldn't for quite some time. A cold mist rolled in from the ocean, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. Streetlights struggled to illuminate the roads, only creating an otherworldly feel, looking like circles of light hanging in the air.

People appeared and disappeared into the milky void like ghosts, only their footsteps revealing that they were still there even when unseen. Car lights spread through the fog, swelling and then swooping past in a blur. Above it all, neon lights drifted high above on invisible walls.

Sig felt like the wet cold slithered down his lungs for every breath, coating his insides. Darkly, he wondered how long he, accustomed to desert heat, could go on in this environment before one common cold led to another until pneumonia struck.

It wasn't far to the building that housed Rayn's apartment. He wasn't sure why she chosen to place him in a neighboring area of the town instead of in the same building, but he wasn't going to complain about that. Except that he would prefer being even farther from her – however, the city wasn't big enough.

Chilton opened the door within moments as Sig knocked on it. The aide looked him up and down, quirked an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose, but slipped back and allowed Sig to enter without comment. Maybe he sensed that there was an itching fist dangerously close to his scrawny self.

Rayn, of course, had far more control over the situation.

"Didn't the clothes I ordered for you fit?" she demanded as soon as she saw him, halting in her rising from her desk as he entered the office. She sunk back down, folding her arms in disapproval.

"Figgered you'd want dirty jobs done," Sig replied.

He'd prepared that response. He hated himself for that.

Not that it mattered, in the end.

"You may be correct in this case, but you should refrain from assuming things," Rayn said with a scoff. "Go back home and change. You look like you're straight from the desert. And don't punch my wall!"

She added the last as he turned around and stalked out without a word.

When he returned, he was met not only with Rayn's expectant gaze but stares from a dozen other pairs of eyes. There was a large group of thugs in the office, all men of the scarred, tattooed and bulky variety – except for Razer, who stood closest to Rayn, looking as suave as ever. Sig didn't pay him any heed, coldly meeting the searching glares aimed at him. All of them weighing him.

Rayn must've told them, though, because there was no comment. Not even from Shiv, whose lips drew back from his teeth in a feral snarl when Sig glared right back at him. But the man – twice Rayn's size and with his torn-off ears evidence for the brutality he was used to – made sure to keep his face turned so that their boss didn't see him growl.

"If everyone is quite ready," Rayn said in an icy tone, giving Sig a stern look, "I need you to go down to the harbor and strike…"

Sig hardly listened. Rayn's voice became a drone in his ears, only letting enough through to tell him what was expected. A pair of rival gang leaders were meeting along with their guards in a neutral location, and Rayn wanted to begin setting examples.

No survivors.

Their orders given, the thugs filed out. The speed of their movements said that they were quite glad to leave – only Razer appeared completely at ease.

"And Sig…" Rayn said, stopping him by the door. The others kept hurrying out.

He glanced around, and Rayn shook her head at him with a sigh.

"I don't know what statement you're trying to make by sleeping on the floor in the hall," she said. "However, you could at least try to act civilized when you're not working."

That caught him completely off guard.

"What?" he said, disturbed by her knowledge.

"You heard me," she said and waved him out.

He could clearly see that no more delay would be tolerated, so he left with a lingering, sickening unease in his gut. Nobody else commented, either not hearing or caring – or daring to – challenge him.

As Sig walked down the stairs leading down to the street outside, Razer glanced around and waved at him to stick close. While not a pleasant option, there were no better alternatives. Jaw clenched, Sig got into the passenger seat of Razer's car as the other thugs went to their own. Within a minute, they were off.

It began to rain as they left the residential districts behind and came into the harbor area, which eased up the mist. Work had not yet begun there. The cranes were tucked up and the ships rested in the docks, silent and unlit.

Neither Sig nor Razer said a word to each other. Razer spoke into his communicator as they got deeper into the harbor, only taking one hand off the wheel. On his word, both he and everyone else turned off the lights on their cars and they continued on with only the lamp posts and occasional lights on a building to guide them through the alleys.

On another command from Razer, half of the cars went off in two different directions. Razer and a couple more continued on, driving up behind a dark warehouse. There they parked, and Sig followed Razer out.

Rain poured down, striking his face like thousands of tiny needles. Far below, above the howl of the wind, there were the constant, wet crashes of waves hitting the pillars holding the city aloft. There were no colorful neon signs here. Only streetlights creating haloes of jaundiced light, floating in the cold, wet darkness.

Razer pointed towards another warehouse on the other side of the street. From outside it seemed shut-off and abandoned at first, but Sig caught a flicker of light in one of the windows above the closed and barred gate.

"Would you mind flaunting your skills?" Razer said with a mildly curious tone, motioning towards Sig's Peace Maker. "And do be quick, they may have been alerted."

Pressing his lips together, Sig changed his grip of the gun.

Just another dirty job. He'd done this before.

It never felt right even when he'd had a good reason.

"Sure it's the targets and not just dockworkers in there?" he grunted.

"Sure enough for the Princess," Razer said with a mild smirk. He tilted his head sideways and glanced at Sig from the corner of his eye. "You're not unfamiliar with the risk of a little collateral damage, are you?"

Sig didn't dignify that with an answer. Back when he worked for Krew, he had needed to maintain a certain image, even with the grunts. If anybody had asked him such a question back then, he would have coldly said that he just hated wasting ammo.

But he had no reason to explain himself here, nor any desire for Razer's or any of the other thugs' respect. Not that they would ever give him that either way.

He activated his mechanical eye, seeing several faint heat sources through the wall, like wisps of orange and green. At least, he could try to make it quick.

"Stand back."

He heard them move after a moment, and pulled the trigger, holding it as a furious, electrical hiss rose up and seared through his eyelid as the Peace Maker charged. The rain and water already on him led some of the electricity back to him, stinging his skin, but he was used to it. One of the thugs yelped, though, not far enough away and not ready for it.

There was a muffled shout from inside the warehouse and the colored wisps he saw through his mechanical eye dispersed, having caught on to the sudden burst of light. Sig raised the Peace Maker and fired.

The shot flared straight through the gate, tearing through steel storage racks and whatever goods were on them. With a series of deafening crashes, the scaffolds came tumbling down, drowning out the screams of the people inside. Some of the wisps fell to the ground amongst the falling rubble.

The sound of nearby gunfire revealed that there had been some survivors who tried to make it out that way, only to run into their enemies' line of fire.

Moments passed, and finally the noise stopped.

"Holy shit!" one of the thugs behind Sig muttered, with a sickening glee in his tone.

They had peace maker bullets in the racing cars during the championship, but those weren't Wastelander grade.

Silence.

"Care to take a look?" Razer said, motioning towards the building.

When Sig mutely looked at him, he smiled and added:

"Oh, we'll be right here behind you."

Holding in a growl, Sig crossed the street and carefully entered the warehouse, keeping his eyes open for any signs of enemies or more falling objects. A burnt smell filled the air. Some cloth was smoking further inside, blackened by the blast. Sig kept it in the corner of his eye, in case it was actually burning. He hoped there wasn't anything explosive in there.

A groan from the side made him glance, and he saw a man half-buried under a toppled rack. A man with his blond hair in a pony tail.

For a moment, Sig thought it was Jinx. Logic drowned – maybe it wasn't even impossible, Jinx had been as closely tied to Krew's world as Sig if not more – and all thoughts flew out the window as Sig ran over and wrenched the wreckage aside. Dust tumbled through the air, concrete pebbles peppering the ground around his feet.

It wasn't Jinx. The man was far younger and bulkier. Only the blond hair in a messy ponytail matched. He groaned, squinting up with eyes misted over with pain. His left arm was twisted behind his back at an impossible angle and blood seeped through his pants and sleeveless, torn shirt.

A gun laid half buried in crumbled concrete near his hand, but his fingers only twitched uselessly. He probably didn't even know where he was.

Shiv stepped up, crouching over the man.

"No…"

It was a weak croak. Then Shiv slit the wounded man's throat. A few weak spasms, followed by stillness.

Sig saw the smug, silent challenge coming in Shiv's movements, knew how the thug would look at him, search him for disapproval to mock and gleefully report to Rayn. Refusing to give the scumbag that triumph, Sig turned away.

He just watched in silence as the others cleaned up the enemy thugs that had survived.

When he returned "home" that evening, he found out how Rayn had known he slept on the floor. Somebody had been there to restore the kitchen to its pristine state, removing all signs that he had used it at all. Even the little trash had been taken out from under the sink. The cleaner had also gathered up the mattress and the blankets and returned them to the bed.

Sig tore up the bedding and threw it all out in the corridor again.

The next day they repeated the same dance, he and the unseen cleaner, and the next and the next. Rayn had another exasperated talk with him about how he should use the bed like a normal person.

Then Sig wrote a note and left it on top of the mattress.

_**I like it this way. Cut it out.** _

He returned to find a response scrawled on the piece of paper.

_**I'm just doing my job.** _

But after that the mattress was left alone, and Rayn didn't complain about his sleeping habits again.

Within a couple of weeks, all who had openly stood against Rayn were crushed or terrified into submission, and her dominance began to solidify.

* * *

It was Tess who brought it up first, calling Daxter's communicator early one morning.

"Have you seen Sig lately?"

Daxter pulled his feet from the table of the simple Spargus apartment, tipping his chair forwards out of its precarious balancing on two legs. Even though he didn't think twice about it, the question was not what he had expected – and when he opened his mouth he realized that he had to ponder the answer.

"Nooo…" he slowly said, thoughtfully. "One sec." He turned his head. "Jak, have you seen Sig?"

Metal clattered softly as Jak lowered the piece of the morph gun he had been cleaning, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Not since we came home after the championship," he said. The two of them exchanged glances. That was almost half a month ago. Of course it didn't have to mean anything, but Sig did tend to give them a heads up if he went off on a long mission, just in case they wanted him for something.

"I've tried calling him several times over the last few days. Torn didn't know where he's at either," Tess said, her voice getting clearer as Daxter fiddled with the communicator speaker volume so that Jak would be able to hear her better. Jak was already coming closer, though, to look over Daxter's shoulder. "We made a bet, and he's gotta owe up."

"Bet? How come I didn't hear about this?" Daxter said, quirking an eyebrow. Behind him, Jak was pushing buttons on his own communicator.

Tess let out a chirping laugh.

"We bet on whether Torn or Ashelin would get kicked out of the competition first," she said. "Now he has to let me take his Peace Maker apart to see how it works."

"And what if _he_ had won?" Daxter demanded, other eyebrow rising too as he grinned.

The answer never came, as Jak cut in.

"He's not answering my call, either," the blond said.

"Okay, so he's not just hiding from me then." Tess tried to smile, but a worried note crept into her voice. She scratched her cheek, looking at the two of them through the camera and searching for something to reassure her.

"Don't say that, baby, he knows we're the first you'd call to collect his ass for you," Daxter commented, but his laugh didn't reach all the way through. He cleared his throat and pulled himself together. "Eh, don't worry, okay? He's probably just out on something that requires radio silence. We'll check it out for you."

"Thanks. And tell him I expect him to pay his debt ASAP."

With that, she signed off, leaving the Demolition Duo to their intelligence-gathering mission.

They called Freedom HQ to double check with Ashelin and Samos – because after the Dark Maker invasion, Torn had been ordered to stop trying to keep track of every single detail – but received nothing helpful from there.

Daxter, of course, instantly picked up on the small but deepening crease between Jak's eyebrows. Something didn't feel right about this, at all. So Daxter did what any Daxter would do in that situation.

"Whoa, buddy," he said with a wide, theatrical sweep of his arms and overly obvious roll of his eyes. "Yanno I'd put my life in Tessy's hands _almost_ as quick as in yours, but I can't blame Sig for going into hiding. That ol' gal of his isn't something to part with that easy, and you know Tess will get the crazy eyes the moment she lays her pretty fingers on that thing. Scary stuff."

Jak listened to the ramble in silence, frown easing up as the corners of his lips twitched. Once Daxter finished, though, he just nodded and looked back down on his communicator, pushing a few buttons. There wasn't much else Daxter could do to help right then, so he shut his trap and waited along with Jak.

Within a couple of seconds there was a response.

"Yes, Jak?" Damas's hoarse voice came from the speakers.

"Got a minute?" Jak asked. "We may have problem."

"I'm in the throne room."

A click and beep that announced that Damas had ended the call, just like that. Daxter wrestled down a snicker as he got up to follow Jak out of the apartment and down the street.

The truth about Jak and Damas's connection hadn't earned the two youths any free rides – quite the opposite, to little surprise. In fact the King oftentimes appeared even more strict than before, at least when anybody not in the know was present. On the other hand, there had been times when he'd had to rein Jak in from doing anything too reckless. The fear of losing his son again was evident if you knew where to look.

And that, perhaps, made for some unusual allowances.

Daxter took every opportunity to show off his war amulet. Especially since he hadn't been sure that he'd even get a chance at his third piece. There had been one trembling, uncertain hour a few days after they took down the Dark Maker ship and Erol, when Damas suddenly summoned the two of them to the throne room and looked them both over.

" _Jak, I want a word with you. Without Daxter."_

Damas didn't use nicknames. But he seldom used names, either, and that had made both Jak and Daxter's guts drop to the floor. They had seen it coming. Everyone else had figured out their relationship quicker than they had preferred, but probably should have expected. Subtlety had never been a skill either of them could master.

It had really just been a matter of time with Damas, and they had both known it. It just so happened that he was so busy with leading the clean-up work after the Dark Makers, that they had gotten a little breather before he demanded to have that chat alone with Jak.

Afterwards, Jak assured Daxter that it hadn't been as embarrassing as they had feared, and left it at that. Damas even deigned to give the redhead a slanted smile the next time their eyes met.

The words kept burning on his tongue, but even Daxter wasn't crazy enough to call the King "dad-in-law." He full well understood that the line of Mar had a long, _very_ important history and accepting that it would abruptly end with its strongest heir must be a bitter pill to swallow.

But Damas did it anyway, and with little fuss, because Jak was that precious to him.

Now, back in the throne room for a whole other matter, Jak glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the lift had descended out of hearing range before he looked forward again. Damas walked down the steps from the throne. He stopped before Jak, who kept watching him as the King raised one hand and placed it on the younger man's shoulder.

Daxter stood back, simply watching them watch each other, and keeping his mouth shut just for this.

It was brief, and silent, but it was their little thing.

In the next moment, Damas's hand slipped off Jak's shoulder and he was all business again.

"What is it?" he asked.

"We seem to have misplaced a really big guy somewhere," Daxter piped up.

"Nobody's heard from Sig in the last couple of weeks," Jak clarified. "Is he on a mission?"

"None of mine," Damas said, his ever-present scowl digging deeper into his forehead. "He told me that Freedom HQ wanted him for something that would take a while, but that was shortly after the championship ended."

"Torn says they thought he was busy out here since then," Daxter said.

Damas's scowl twitched, and Daxter shuffled a little closer to Jak. Because he saw Jak's hands clench and unclench, and the look that flashed in the blue eyes. Confusion took a dive right into worry, and that was a doubly eerie feeling when it was about somebody like Sig.

Without a word, Damas took out his communicator and punched a few buttons.

"His communicator is shut off," he said, not looking up. "Wait."

Jak and Daxter exchanged glances as the King pushed more buttons. Both of them tried to scrounge up an assuring look, but neither one did very well.

"Yes, Your Lordship?" came a female voice from Damas's communicator.

"Locate Sig's war amulet," Damas said.

"Right away."

Moments passed. Then the voice returned, with a concerned note.

"Your Lordship, there's no signal."

"Can you locate where it was before the signal was lost?" Damas said, without missing a beat.

"Please wait a minute."

The silence stretched as the three men watched the communicator in Damas's hand. From the speakers came only a muffled crackle and distant tapping of buttons. Daxter struggled not to fidget, but Jak soon started shifting his weight impatiently. Only Damas stood still as a statue, waiting.

"I found it, Your Lordship," the woman on the other end finally said.

"Send it to Jak. They'll go have a look."

"Right away."

Jak had already snatched up his communicator and activated it, so that the map was up on the screen when a beep came from the device. A green, blinking dot appeared on the picture and Jak was halfway to the elevator with Daxter in tow before he caught himself and looked around.

"Good hunting," Damas said. He had no other encouragement to give, and not even a hint of a smile. Not for something like this.

Hurrying down and to the car pit, Jak and Daxter boarded the Sand Shark and sped off into the desert, heading straight for the signal. Halfway there, a scouting group of marauders unwisely got in the way. Jak hardly seemed to register blasting their cars – the championship had managed to refine his combined driving and shooting skills to a terrifying art form.

With little effort they found their way to the place where Sig had done away with his past life.

However, it didn't help them.

The melted, twisted remains of Sig's war amulet were in that very area, but the boys never found it. A storm and heavy, clawed feet had long since pushed it around and concealed it amongst the sand and pebbles.

They did find the crater of melted, twisted sand from the Peace Maker blast that had destroyed the amulet, partly crushed by a metal head's foot, but those were a dime a dozen in the desert. It offered no clues.

Jak was calling in the air train even before they started heading back to Spargus, and the two of them were in Haven City that same evening. By now concern had turned to real worry. They sped through the industrial section, deaf to the shouts of the workers to watch out as Jak dodged and swerved a zoomer past the myriad of construction scaffolds. Haven was still hard at work with rebuilding after the war, and the smell of sweat, wood and metal hung in the air.

As soon as they reached the edge of the residential district and Jak started to slow down, Daxter jumped out of the zoomer and rushed in through a doorway to an apartment complex. Jak followed within seconds, their vehicle still gliding through the air. Neither even looked around at the hard, metallic thud as a wall got in the zoomer's way.

During the renegade days, Sig had let Jak and Daxter have a spare key to his apartment in case they needed someplace to hide. He'd given them a new key when he got a new apartment later on, even when there was less need to have multiple safe places then.

They searched the place from top to bottom – not a difficult task since it was as simply furnished as could be. All they could conclude was that it didn't seem like anybody had been there in quite a while. Sig had always kept some basic foodstuffs there, but they were canned goods, and biscuits that had passed their expiration date a month ago. Nothing new, except for a fine coating of dust.

"Okay, okay, okayokayokay…" Daxter muttered as he put down the unopened bag of biscuits on the counter. He needed a second to gather his thoughts, then cleared his throat and folded his arms. "Nobody panic. Nobody think the worst."

He reached out and touched Jak's arm, meeting the gaze from the blue eyes as they turned towards him. Of course Jak wasn't panicking.

But he was thinking the worst. There was no way to avoid that any longer.

Even though Daxter could have done with a healthy dose of reassurances himself, he was acutely aware that in situations like this, he had the most important role to play. So he swallowed against the icy feeling in his heart and tried to smile.

"Siggy's a tough dude," he said. "And you know he'll just smack our heads for worrying once he turns up."

Eventually, seconds too late, Jak nodded. Daxter tugged at his arm, to get him moving. It wouldn't help, but he knew just standing around was the worst thing they could do right then.

"Come on, let's go tell everyone to keep their eyes peeled," he said.

Jak made an agreeing sound and they left, locking the apartment behind them. Even with the worry, though, both of them still felt hope that it was just some coincidence, that Sig was out on a mission and just took his time to get back.

But then the weeks began to wear on to months.


	7. Jury

Sig wasn't sure how many hours he'd spent in Rayn's office, just listening to her talking to others. Sometimes he was obviously in place to look intimidating, and many times it ended with her sending him off with a group of thugs to hunt somebody down. But that didn't explain the times when she wanted him to just stand there with no apparent purpose, like when she was discussing business matters with Chilton.

Though he had a creeping suspicion that she took some pleasure in seeing him bored and uncomfortable.

Just a show of power.

It made him gnash his teeth.

Why she even needed such an ego boost was beyond him, when everything around her was falling into place so neatly – at least, everything was neat as far as she saw. She never got close to any of the dirty work she commanded others to do.

The last few weeks had been a buzz of planning, floating through Sig's ear like a grey flood of tediousness. He didn't care about, or have any input to give – even if he had been asked – for her city planning. And still she wouldn't let him not be there for it. All of it.

Even so, though he didn't listen much or care, he got the gist of the whole thing. Rayn set off long-term plans to tidy up and rebuild the most run-down parts of town, offering jobs and better living conditions for the poor. In doing so, she tightened her grip of the people's hearts with favors instead of threats. She already had the upper and middle class under her control thanks to terror. Those who were already living in fear would be controlled in another way.

It was just like her plans for sending talented youths abroad to study, offering them generous grants to make sure they could gather as much skill in economics, engineering and city planning as possible – with the condition that they returned to Kras to work for five years, or those grants would transform into loans to be repaid.

Every kindness had a stipulation. Rayn didn't do anything with the goal to improve people's lives, or solely to make the city better. When she gave people something, it was so that they would have something to lose. To the poor and put upon, who had known very little benevolence from above in their lives, it probably did not matter much if it was calculated or not. But even if they didn't realize it, it created a loyalty that bound them to Rayn.

But such huge projects required money, and right at the moment she and Chilton were putting the finishing touches on the plan to overhaul and overtake the most profitable business in Kras, second to racing.

"I want to see at least some of the prostitutes myself after the big meeting with their 'caretakers,' but there are simply too many to deal with all," Rayn told Chilton, studying a sheet of statistics. "Set up interviews with others as soon as you've gathered them all up."

Chilton mumbled his "certainly, Miss" mantra and his pen scratched against his notepad.

"And make sure we gather up all 'working' children," Rayn said, and a grim note came into her voice. "I don't want any of them in this business."

"I agree," Chilton commented. "But it _is_ something some people pay a lot for…"

"No." Her tone made it clear that she would not be questioned. "Absolutely not."

Sig studied her, took in the glint of disgust in her eyes. She pushed the words out as if she did not even want to acknowledge it, but did anyway because she might be the only one in a position to put a stop to it.

Something inside him grudgingly relaxed.

And then she just had to go on.

"They can work as beggars until they're old enough to make better use of themselves."

"Of course." Chilton tapped his pencil against the notepad he held. "What about education?"

"Let them learn to read and write, and of course properly count. If there are any clever ones that might develop more useful skills than pick pocketing and prostitution when they get older, we'll review them as they come."

Sig held back a resigned growl. He didn't know why he was even surprised anymore.

"I'll begin looking into it, Miss," Chilton said. He tapped his pen down the note block, counting the list of instructions. "Anything else?"

"Book a barber for Sig," Rayn said. "His beard is coming along and should be trimmed."

"Certainly, Miss. What about his hair?"

"It's fine for now, but if the barber can even it out it wouldn't hurt. The way it's curling is distracting."

"Very true."

Neither one of them even looked at him as they spoke.

It was late in the afternoon when they had finished up the meeting, and Rayn sent Sig away. As the door closed behind him, she sat for a moment and stared at it.

"Revamping the prostitute organization under my care is going to make some people a little perturbed again," she mused aloud, thoughtfully balancing her chin on her fist.

Distracted as she was, she didn't see the eyebrow twitch momentarily that chipped Chilton's normally bland, businesslike expression. It was gone as quick as it had been there. When he made a vague agreeing sound, there was nothing to betray his thoughts.

"Perhaps we should improve security further," Rayn continued. "I should have Sig move in here. He could sleep in the guest room."

"If you are worried, we certainly should make sure you feel safer, Miss," Chilton said. "But…"

He coughed into his fist in a way that made Rayn sharply look at him, and politely avoided her gaze when he continued:

"I must inform you that the underlings, unsurprisingly, are already talking about why you keep that Wastelander around."

Rayn's eyes widened only a fraction, but even with her self-control she couldn't keep her cheeks from coloring. Luckily for her dignity, her makeup hid it. Chilton buried his nose in his notepad, pretending not to notice how the comment affected her.

"Make sure you quell any such talk where you find it," Rayn said, her voice shriller than usual.

"Yes, Miss," Chilton said.

He found it prudent to remove himself from the room, leaving Rayn to stew in embarrassment and fury that anybody would dare to think of her like that. Such feelings were hardly tempered by the humiliating conclusion that she should have seen it coming – and that she could hardly expect it to only be the boorish thugs under her command who were talking.

All thoughts of increased security were banished from her head.

* * *

Chilton worked as efficiently as always, and had everything ready in a few days. The day of reviewing prostitutes, if possible, even more trying for Sig than usual. Halfway through he was well and truly wondering what Rayn had meant with "at least some," because it soon became obvious that the whole day would be spend evaluating new employees. According to Chilton he'd rounded up the ones that he felt uncertain about for Rayn's assessment, and there seemed to be no end of them.

They were showed into the office one by one to be judged by Rayn's critical eye. There was a degree of unease and confusion in all of them, even in the ones whose eyes were dulled from a rough life where only alcohol and drugs dulled the daily misery.

More than ever, Sig wondered why he had to be there. Every single one of the scantily clad men and women gave Rayn and the men at her side a scan of their own. It was a businesslike check, out of habit trying to evaluate whether to approach a potential customer on the street or if it would be dangerous – if they were likely to be paid or be beaten up after the service.

After the fifth one had quickly glanced away from Sig with a frightened wince, he stopped looking back at them.

Rayn was as coldly efficient as ever.

"No, no, no, you won't do even in the low price range," she told the sixth 'applicant,' a weary-looking, plump woman with frizzled, amateurishly bleached hair. Her makeup couldn't hide that she was middle-aged.

The woman blinked like an owl, mute – certainly used to rougher language than that but still taken by surprise.

"Can you do anything practical?" Rayn went on, not even waiting for a comment. When the woman hesitated, Rayn leaned forwards with a scowl. "Well?"

"I… I used to clean…" the woman stuttered, awkwardly.

Rayn leaned back with a sigh.

"Alright, well enough. I'll set you up to clean up in a few of the houses instead." She gave a warning glare. "Be thankful I need some of those too. Just do not let us catch you trying to make money on the side by freelancing."

Mumbling a confused and uncertain thanks, the older woman retreated as Rayn waved her away. The humiliation of the insults would sink in only later, as right then she was just too baffled.

She would not be the only one suffering such verbal whip cracks. Rayn's efficiency had no pity.

It didn't take long for Sig to lose count on how many people went in and out of the office. It all became another buzz in his head, with a rising taste of bile in his mouth until it just became too much and he became numb.

He wasn't even sure how long it had been going on, when something different happened.

A young woman was shown in, and the only reason Sig awakened a little bit from his uneasy, bored stupor was how she moved and glanced about. She looked little different than the others – though some had clothes and appearances that showed that their "caretakers" at least had cared about how the product was presented, this woman had some of the worst looks about her. Her clothes were torn and worn, and her black hair dangled in unwashed strings clogged together by dirt and grease.

All of the earlier visitors had looked uneasy, but it was the awkwardness of being in an alien situation, not having a clue what to expect. This woman clutched at her arms like she was disgusted with real and imagined – remembered – filth on her tanned skin. But there was something in her eyes though, a desperate flicker of hope.

"Taraxa, is it?" Rayn said, glancing at her list.

"Yes, Miss," the woman said. She bit her red-painted lip and straightened up. "Miss, please, a moment, please."

The sheer gall of one of the prostitutes addressing her, a sudden shift in the smooth humdrum of the interviews, made Rayn look up with a start. Even Chilton tilted his head in surprise.

"I… I came from Haven," Taraxa said, "I'm an academic… I was promised a job, but— but when I came here—"

Sig lowered his head to hide his cringe, and even more when Rayn sighed. He could practically hear her roll her eyes at the woman's foolishness, even though people with a higher education weren't usually the targets for these kinds of things.

"Alright," Rayn said, "what is your field, then?"

Taraxa lit up, and Sig made a silent wish for her sake that she would be very, very careful.

"Suburban agriculture!" Taraxa blurted.

Rayn actually blinked.

"I beg your pardon?" she said. But she leaned forward just the slightest, and there was a hint of interest in her tone.

"It's a pretty new field, Miss," Taraxa said, pointing at the window. Her voice rose in excitement as she continued. "It's about trying to grow edible plants in cities where the farmland is limited. There's so much you could do with just a small area like the top of a building, like grow vegetables or even berry bushes! It's a field just started in Haven—"

Her passion was her fatal mistake. Had she phrased it as a suggestion, and not as a radical new idea, Rayn would not have felt questioned.

Then Rayn wouldn't have switched from vaguely intrigued to annoyed.

"It's nothing we need at the moment," she cut off the explanation.

Taraxa froze up, her mouth half open to form another word. The light in her eyes flickered.

"You were such a fool, too. I don't believe in your abilities to plan anything." Rayn gave her another curt look-over. "But you would be pretty enough with better makeup and clothing. I'll put you in the south part of town."

The light died. Taraxa's shoulders slumped and she turned when Rayn waved at her to leave, staggering out. The door had hardly closed behind her as Rayn looked at Chilton.

"Look into what she was talking about," she said. "I'm sure we can find somebody to work on that suburban agriculture idea. It was quite interesting."

"Certainly, Miss," Chilton said and made a note in his block. "It's a very clever idea, I must say."

Sig clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

There were no more incidents like that. Even so, by the time Rayn finished the last appraisal and let him go as well, Sig had a thundering headache and he walked back to his apartment block with black spots dancing through his vision.

He climbed the stairs, feet feeling like lead. As he reached the corridor leading to his apartment door he stopped for a moment to catch his breath.

Then froze.

Gingerly he touched his chest with his fingertips, feeling his heart beat faster than it ought to as he drew shallow breaths. He glanced back, at the three flights of stairs he had just gone up. How could something so little make him so winded?

But thinking about it, he realized that it had crept up on him bit by bit. Just like the shaking of his hands.

Struggling to push down the feeling of dread, he unlocked his apartment and went inside. The unseen cleaning person had put everything back in place, even made the bed on the floor. Sig stepped over it into the kitchen and tried to find something that he could stomach to eat.

Five minutes later there was a half-eaten serving of microwaved beef and potatoes abandoned on the table, and Sig was heading for the bathroom. He'd wrestled down several bites of the dry, processed meat solely because he knew his body desperately needed it. Then again, he doubted it was worth the few remaining nutrients.

He didn't feel like showering either, but he couldn't stand listening to Rayn berate him about smelling bad. She found enough faults anyway.

Brushing his teeth was a trial in itself, because lately several tender ulcers had popped up on the insides of his cheeks and on the flesh of his lower lip, just in front of his teeth. He'd already bitten through one by mistake and it had flared and throbbed with pain for the whole day. They didn't make it any easier to eat, when he already struggled with a nonexistent appetite.

He was in a bad shape, in every possible way.

And he saw no end of it, either.

Sleep only crept up on him slowly, once his brain had stopped tumbling bitter thoughts around in his head for several hours. This night, though, they kept coming back to earlier in the day, to that one woman who had so desperately reached for hope and had it slapped away by Rayn.

There was nothing he could do, kept prisoner as he was.

He knew it was a mistake. Giving himself another weak point was the last thing he needed.

But Rayn already had him where she wanted him. As he stared into the darkness and felt the silent loneliness press down in a choking hold, he couldn't see what difference it would make – and if it might offer some comfort to another miserable person, perhaps it was a risk worth taking.

Precursors knew his courage was battered and broken in every other way.

* * *

Late next day, Razer entered Rayn's apartment to receive new instructions. Even as he and Chilton approached the office, they heard the raised voices from behind the closed door.

The argument halted when Chilton knocked.

"Yes?" came a snap from Rayn inside.

Chilton opened the door a crack.

"Razer, Miss," he said, carefully. "Is this a bad time?"

"No. Come right in."

"Miss—" That was Sig, in a low, barely controlled growl. The hair on the back of Razer's neck rose.

"Come in, Razer!" Rayn icily said.

Razer had never been scared of danger, and this was such a curious situation that he entered with interest. During all this time, despite all logic, Rayn had seemed able to keep Sig under control. Yet here was a sudden, obvious crack.

The former racer was intrigued.

Rayn and Sig both stood in the middle of the room, Rayn's arms crossed, Sig's fists balled at his sides. He glared murder at Razer, riled up further by the intrusion. There was only a mild, teasing smile to be had in return.

"Just a moment, we're almost done," Rayn coldly said as the door closed softly behind Razer.

She turned to Sig and dryly said:

"Why do I have the feeling that you're just going to have tea with her?"

"Does it matter, _Miss Rayn_?" Sig growled.

"Did we not discuss your tone twice already?" She held his gaze, unblinking.

No reply. Rayn's mouth twisted into a small, sardonic sneer.

"It's very tiring when you don't learn, Sig. You're not dumber than that you can understand that much. And despite that you get it into your head to make requests?"

"It's not like you're paying me," Sig said through his teeth.

Razer's eyebrows shot upwards.

"Enough!" Rayn snapped. She pointed at the door, and Razer quickly stepped aside. "Get out and don't come back until you've cooled off."

Sig needed no further push to leave, stomping out with his face reminiscent of a thunderstorm.

Closing the door, Razer took in a deep breath and looked back at Rayn, who stalked over to her desk and sat down. He approached her, trying to smoothen the line between his brows. Here was something that sat very ill with him.

"Miss, you're doing an amazing job with the city," he said, choosing his words very carefully. "But is it wise to not pay him?"

"He's a special case," Rayn said in a steely tone.

"Yes, of course. But even prostitutes get paid."

"Sig isn't a prostitute, Razer."

"Miss—"

"Not another word!" She glared at him, perfect little eyebrows creeping low above her eyes as her finely manicured nails rapped against her desk. "Sig works for me, but he's not employed. Besides, what would he do with money?"

Razer watched her in silence for a moment.

"What indeed…" he finally murmured and bowed his head as if submitting to her wisdom.

But in reality, he was only amazed at how she, who seemed to have such an insight into how everything else could be made to work as smoothly as possible, could be so ignorant about the fact that no human is ever completely owned. It seemed to him like she was purposefully playing with a bomb when it came to Sig.

"Considering his bad moods, he'd probably just start drinking if he had the means to pay for it," Rayn absently added as she started looking through another one of her never-ending supply of paper heaps.

Razer had too much dignity and sense of self-preservation to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"One thing, if you please," he said, holding up his hands in a pacifying manner. "Perhaps you should consider that being idle is bad for his usefulness."

"How so?" Rayn shot back, eyebrows still dangerously low.

"Oh, he simply seems more sluggish than he was when he first arrived," Razer said with a shrug. "He led a very athletic life before this, didn't he?"

Rayn snorted, but despite that she grudgingly nodded and turned back to her desk.

"I'll have Chilton get him a gym subscription. It may do something for his attitude if he gets to work out a little, I suppose."

With that, that line of conversation was clearly over. Razer took his new orders from her and left, unable to shake the unease. He'd seen from day one that Rayn was pushing Sig's limits, but he hadn't realized it was to such an extent.

The meltdown wasn't going to be pretty. Taking some small safety precautions without the Princess's knowledge was definitely a good idea, because throwing Sig into a gym and believing that would fix his growing rage was just wishful thinking.

Chilton stuck his head out of the kitchen as Razer left. Returning back inside, the aide continued his work to prepare a tray of tea and biscuits for Rayn, which he carried into her office a few minutes later. He found her sitting at her desk trying to look like she was working, but really just glaring at a report without reading it.

"There are no more meetings booked today, I noted," Chilton said as he poured her a cup of tea. "Do you wish to work alone for the rest of the day?"

"Yes," Rayn said through her teeth. "I have a lot of things to do, and I don't want _any_ disturbances."

"As you wish, Miss."

He walked out, a small smile playing at his lips.

Once left alone, Rayn opened her notebook and started looking through the economic calculations she had been doing earlier that day. Halfway down the page she realized that she couldn't remember what she'd read, and started over only to find herself distracted again.

Sig's grim, steady expression floated in her mind and she slapped the block down, mouth forming a disgusted twist.

How dared he even think to demand something? Oh yes, he had worded it like a request, but the gall of it made the underlying tone clear to her. She had provided him with everything practical he might want and he still thought to be unsatisfied.

All the little things he did to just vex her were slight enough, yet lately he had seemed to finally mellow out and accept his situation. But now this?

She rapped her nails against the desk, slow at first, then at an increasing speed as her eyebrows lowered. Her fingertips all hit the wood with a muffled thud and she stood up, the chair rolling away several feet from the force.

Walking over to the window she tried to calm herself with the comforting familiarity of the busy, neon lit street. Here was life, here was enjoyment, luxuries and technology to make life easy.

The races in Spargus had been days spent in Hell. Even recalling it made her cringe. Not even the most basic comforts to be had. They didn't even have running water. Hot as an oven, dusty, dirty, smelly. Animals running wild in the streets. Constant marauder and metal head disturbances to worry about.

Anybody ought to be grateful to be rescued from that place, and brought to civilization. Yet Sig acted as if she and her father had offended him.

Standing there, quietly fuming, the silence fell heavy around her. The noise from outside was just a soft, familiar hum filtered away by her brain. She would only notice if it suddenly stopped.

Instead she heard something else. Barely audible from where she was, but the floor creaked at a distance, and she heard a click of the apartment door opening. Frowning, she crossed the floor and leaned towards the peephole in the office door.

She saw only blackness, as if the hole was covered.

Frowning, premonition sprouting a tendril deep within her, she hunched down and peeked through a second, far less obvious peephole she had made herself. Her father had always said that it was best to be extra careful.

She could only see ground level from there, but she saw Chilton's feet and lower legs by the door, and that two more people entered. Men, clearly, wearing heavy boots that they kicked off before starting to follow Chilton carefully up the corridor, walking softly to not disturb the creaky planks.

Ice poured through Rayn and she shot up, turning the lock on the door as carefully as her shaking hand allowed. It slipped into place without a sound.

She couldn't believe it, but she had to. This was very, very wrong.

Rushing over, she unlocked one of the drawers in the desk and pulled it out with a hard jerk, her heartbeat rattling louder and louder in her ears.

She had kept a gun in there. Chilton had known she did.

It was gone.

Snapping for breath she shot up and fumbled for her communicator, sending pens and papers tumbling onto the floor in her haste. Somehow she managed to dial the number she wanted. A soft creak of footsteps over the floor was heard from outside, the sound tearing into her ears.

"What, _Miss Rayn_?" came a low growl from the communicator.

In any other situation Rayn would have snapped at him to mind his tone, but she wasn't in the right mind to care at the moment.

"Sig!" she hissed, frantically glancing between the door and the face on the small screen. "Sig, come back—!"

A key turned in the lock.


	8. Cell mate

This wasn't supposed to happen to her.

On the racetrack, she hadn't feared. But then she had weapons, and her skill at the wheel, and a metal box protecting her.

Outside of a race car, she was a petite businesswoman.

Afterwards, Rayn only remembered those first few moments just before the assault like a series of flashing still images, like her brain couldn't handle the memory.

She dropped the communicator on the floor, hearing it softly thud on the carpet.

The door began to open.

Her shaking legs wouldn't hold her. She slammed her hands on the desk top, trying to keep standing. There was nowhere to run. They wouldn't find her cowering.

The door softly knocked against the wall, and she faced Chilton and the two thugs behind him. She didn't recognize them, could hardly even take in their looks apart from the tattoos and scars and big hands. All she really saw were their smirks and hungry, cruel eyes.

"Chilton— what—" she managed, voice cracking at a hysterical pitch.

His mouth twisted in a look she'd never seen on his face – disappointment.

"Ah, you already figured it out. Too bad, I wanted to be the one to break it to you."

She wanted to ask him why, but she didn't want the answer. The words would not form; instead, she just stared mutely at him.

This couldn't happen. He couldn't betray her. Traitors were people who thought they were treated unfairly. She'd never given him reason to complain.

That belief only revealed her ignorance as Chilton spoke.

"It's not what you do, Miss," he said, holding her nailed to the spot with his glare. "It's _how_ you do it. My mother worked very hard to put me through college, and we were both proud of the business she built along the way." He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Miss, we are a little 'a little perturbed' as you so succinctly put it."

He took a step back, half turning as the two thugs stepped past him.

"Your father should have taught you to respect other people, girl," Chilton said as he reached to close the door.

Screaming wouldn't help. The apartment was sound proof.

Her legs finally decided to move and she recoiled away from him. They followed with widening grins, and her back hit the wall, knocking a vase off its stand. The crash rung in the air, the final shreds of her composure shattering along with the pottery.

Big, rough hands grabbed her and she slammed into the floor, black spots dancing before her eyes. A pathetic yelp escaped her as the taller one jerked her up by her hair, his calloused hand closed around her wrists like a fleshy bond. The stench of their bodies tore at her nostrils.

"Unhand me this instant!" she choked.

"But you look so fine on your knees," the other thug said as he hunched down in front of her.

Rayn jerked her head away when he reached as if to caress her cheek. Instead he grabbed her throat, forcing her face upwards. She struggled not to whimper when his other hand drifted into sight, holding a pocket knife. The blade flashed like lightning in the lamp light.

"And that pretty lil' mouth of yours, never shutting the fuck up. You oughta put it to better use." He leaned in closer, his hot breath flowing over her face. "Ain't no secret that you know how."

She wanted to spit and snap at him that he was a fool and wrong, but she could hardly breathe.

The knife swept down and she couldn't hold in a yelp, but it didn't bury in her flesh. Instead he pressed it to her soft bottom lip, tilting the icy cold metal against her skin.

"Gonna make you nice and slick for the service, precious."

The blade tilted, slicing in and sending a bolt of shock and agony through her.

There was a shot from the other side of the door, followed by hard thumps and muffled yelps. The thug hunching before Rayn shot up straight, spinning around. She gave a choked sob of relief for the break, unsure yet whether it would last.

The door burst off its hinges, Chilton flying along with it. They crashed together on the floor with a violent crack and the man tumbled over it like a sack of potatoes, silent.

Then Sig was there.

He shot through the broken doorway, lips drawn back in a fierce snarl. Before anybody had time to react a big, dark hand grabbed the shorter thug by the scruff of his neck and hurled him across the room. The dagger clattered against the floor, stained with blood. In the same fluid motion Sig punched above Rayn's head, and she heard a sharp crack and a strangled curse. The grip on her arms relented and Sig pulled her away, shoving her behind him.

She fell to the floor, silent and staring as Sig attacked the thug. The man was still reeling, clutching his broken nose. He had no chance when Sig punched him in the stomach. He fell forwards, screeching for air.

The other mobster got up, snarling, but froze at the sight of his friend's arm getting snapped like a twig over Sig's knee. The howl of pain pierced the air, and the standing thug met his adversary's eyes as his screaming friend got dumped on the floor.

He ran.

Rayn couldn't see the corridor from where she was, but Sig made no move to follow the thug. A moment later she heard shouting and a scuffle coming from the exit, catching several familiar voices – among them Razer. Swearing and running steps disappeared down the stair well, and the door slammed shut.

Paralyzed and mute by the lingering shock, she just watched as Sig roughly pulled the hollering thug up and knocked him out with a single chop to the neck. The mobster fell with a thud as Sig tossed him aside, mouth twisted in disgust.

The silence was deafening. Rayn leaned forwards, clutching her upper arms as she struggled to keep the nausea from overpowering her.

Heavy, steady steps made her glance up.

Sig reached out, and made half a move as to hunch down on one knee before her. Then he froze and straightened, only lowering his hand to offer her help getting to her feet.

At that moment, Rayn was not in the right state of mind to process the aborted motion. When she thought about it later that night, however, it would add even more fuel to her anger.

"Thank you… thank…" she gasped, struggling to catch her breath.

Her hand trembled as she put it in his, for the first time noticing how much bigger than her he was. It looked like a child putting their hand in a big adult's grip. But his calloused fingers were warm, and real, and they gently closed around hers and gave her the strength to stand.

Then he let go just as quickly.

Rayn clutched at her chest, crumpling the once perfectly ironed suit in her hand. The many braids normally kept a tight bun had come loose, dangling around her shoulders. Looking down at herself, she realized what a state she was in. Gritting her teeth she tried to straighten out her clothes.

Without a word Sig held a hand to her back, steadying her as he glanced about, looking for any other sign of danger. Razer and another goon came hurrying up the hallway. Even more of Rayn's own thugs grimly hovered outside the ajar apartment door, the sight of them soothing her wrecked mind a little bit more – even though her shattered trust kept an icy grip of her heart.

"We got the runner," Razer said, wasting no time. "He's taking a nap."

"Good, good…" Rayn mumbled.

She found a handkerchief in one of her pockets and dabbed at her sweat matted forehead. As careful as she tried to be, beads of sweat had already done a number on her make-up, and the fine powder got smeared up in moist streaks on her skin and the handkerchief. The cut on her lip was bleeding, too, but the remaining shock dulled the pain and it wasn't until she felt thick drops on her chin that she remembered it. With a shaking hand, she wiped off the blood and pressed the handkerchief to the wound.

"One m-moment please, I'm not so used to— used to physical altercations as you are."

She was still off balance, struggling to recover.

The man behind Razer sneered while Rayn didn't look at him, but it faded instantly as the former champion gave him a warning glare.

"Take your time, Miss," Razer said in a calm, gentlemanly manner. "It's always worse when being assaulted at home."

Mutely and staring with unseeing eyes at the floor, Rayn nodded. The men gave her time, but the sheer pressure of having them wait on her finally helped force her senses back in some semblance of order and she cleared her throat.

"Chilton let them in," she said, her voice hoarse.

Razer made a motion to the man behind him, who went over to the unmoving ex-secretary on the floor to check on him. After a moment, the examiner looked around with a horrible, cruel grin and gave a thumbs up. Rayn pressed her lips together. There would be an interesting conversation in the near future, then. Even in her current state, it gave her a dark sense of satisfaction.

It helped her relax enough to remember Sig. Her shoulders slumping, she looked up at him, standing there watching her in silence. Sheer gratitude made her knees weak again, but she kept herself upright and braved the pain in her lip to grant him a smile.

"I'm so grateful to father for sending you to me," she said.

Sig pulled his hand from her back as if burned and when she blinked, dazed, he twisted his head to the side so that the only eye she saw was the mechanical one. However, she still caught the look in his good eye before he hid it.

Right then, when she was shaken, when she was weakened and she needed him… right then, now that he didn't have to be a warrior for her anymore, the disdainful grudge flashed back into him like it had never left. Again he refused to be what she wanted him to be.

He wouldn't even pretend that he had wanted to save her for her own sake.

Her eyes widened, then thinned. The snarl was on her lips, the order to Razer and the others to hold Sig down, to beat him. She wanted to see him bleeding and broken.

In the last second her economical sense cut in. To have him punished would leave him useless to her for days, and right then that was also too risky.

But he was a fool if he thought he could treat her like that. She would teach him his place, once and for all.

He himself had given her the means of punishment.

* * *

Rayn had changed her mind about the request he had made just prior to the assault.

Even considering what had happened, Sig was too much of a veteran to expect that this wouldn't come with a price tag later. For the moment, though, he was just… not grateful, certainly not, but glad as much as his current life allowed.

The situation wasn't unfamiliar to him – apart from that he was prepared for the guest for a change. Krew had at times sent "rewards" to Sig's apartment after successful missions. The first time started off awkward, until he and the young woman had sorted things out. The second time, Sig had grumbled – while making coffee – that he had to tell Krew to cut it out because if he wanted company he'd find it.

The lady that night (Sandy) had asked him not to, because coming over to Sig was essentially a paid night off.

So he ended up not telling Krew to quit it, even though it left him wondering about Krew's disturbing ideas about his heavy's preferences.

He was thankfully pulled out of those kinds of thoughts by the soft knock on the door. Leaving the kitchen he went to open. Just to not make her nervous he had moved his makeshift bed out of the corridor and back to where it belonged. He remembered how Krew's increasingly weedy picks had always looked more or less spooked the first time they saw Sig, and the way Rayn's new employees had looked at him also hovered raw in his mind.

When he opened the door, poor Taraxa's already wide eyes twitched and her red-painted lips pressed tighter against each other. She mechanically walked inside, hands twitching as she tried to seem at ease but obviously wanted to disappear into her long jacket. It reached surprisingly low, but didn't hide the fishnet stockings she wore.

The door hadn't even fully closed before Sig had raised both his hands and shook his head.

"It's okay," he said in a soft voice as she stared up at him. "You don't hafta do anythin'."

"Wha… I…" Her voice broke and she glanced away, then back up at him, unable to mask the suspicion in her eyes.

"I don't want anything from you."

She shifted, cautiously daring the risk of pulling her jacket tighter around her.

"Then why did you want me here?" she muttered.

"I don't wanna be here either," Sig said, speaking even lower. He moved towards the kitchen. "Want some coffee?

He grit his teeth against the memory of a hollow-eyed, petite woman gazing up at him and softly saying _"You don't have to drug me, I can play dead if that's what gets you off"_ in response to the same offer. It made him rip a cupboard door off its hinges.

Working for Krew had been particularly trying for a while.

He pushed those thoughts away and glanced back at Taraxa, who still stood paralyzed and uncertain in the hallway.

"Keep the jacket on, if you want," he said.

She followed after a few moments, sitting down on a chair while he poured the coffee. Every motion was stiff, uncertain, and when she put milk in her coffee she just barely avoided spilling it.

He sat down across from her, bearing the silence and hoping that would help her realize that he wasn't toying with her.

"You really don't want…?" she finally whispered, clearly bracing herself.

"Really. You looked so miserable back there," Sig said, and watched a tremble shake her entire body. "You look miserable now, too."

She bit her lip and then looked him in the eye, suddenly hopeful.

"Please… c-could I use your communicator?" The words fell over each other from the frantic speed she spoke with. "I know they couldn't risk coming here, but just to let my parents know I'm…" She faltered and stared at him.

"Sorry, it doesn't work." Sig unhooked the communicator from his belt and set it on the table so that she could see that the "Call" button had been removed. "I'd let ya any day, but it can't make calls."

The hopeful tension fell from her face and she slumped. Then she straightened up, frowning as she looked at him.

"But wait… what if you need to call for help or something?" she asked.

"I guess Rayn figgers I won't."

For a little while, neither one spoke.

"You're in danger." Taraxa stared into her cup, clutching it with both hands. "I shouldn't say it, I know, but I heard the men talking. They don't like you."

Since she wasn't looking at him, Sig allowed himself a small, joyless smile. But he scrubbed it off his face just as quick, not wanting to risk her seeing it and thinking he was laughing at her.

"Thanks," he said in a low voice. "But it ain't no shocker to me." When she snapped her head up to stare at him, he added, "Plenty of reasons for them to not like me before I even got stuck on this post."

He could have bitten his tongue off for the last few words, but they slipped out before he thought it through.

"Forget I said that," he grunted, harsher than he had intended. Taraxa shrunk backwards, only carefully relaxing again when he mumbled an apology.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"How are you doin' now?"

Not the best, but he was uneasy and it was the first thing that came to mind.

"It's… better now, I guess," Taraxa mumbled. "At least I have a warm and clean room. I should be…" She swallowed hard, her hands creeping up her arms, holding herself. "Should be grateful."

"No." Sig shook his head. "She didn't save your hide. Just moved it."

She stared at the table, mutely nodding.

"What was that thing you talked about?" Sig gently asked, wanting to bring her mind to a better place. "Suburban…?"

"Suburban agriculture," she dully said without looking up.

"How does it work?"

"Never mind." Her head sunk further, and she spoke through her teeth. "It's got nothing to do with me anymore."

"There's no farmland at all in the Wasteland," Sig said. "Hardly got anything worth calling soil."

Talking about Spargus cut him like poisoned claws, drying up his throat with longing, but the sacrifice worked. Taraxa glanced up, a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

"Then what do you eat?" she asked.

She didn't seem surprised that he spoke of the Wasteland, but it was probably common knowledge that he was from out of town. By now he could conclude that she probably hadn't been interested in the racing championship, though, since she showed no sign of recognizing him. That was just as well.

"There are plants that can grow there. But they don't like us messing with their flow, we hafta let nature do its thing."

He talked about edible cacti, cave mushrooms, and thorny, serpentine fruit vines bundled up inside crevasses in the ocean cliffs. The memories summoned ghosts of smells, texture and taste to his senses, not only of the food but of everything else he so desperately missed. For just a moment he smelled the hot sand and salty winds, and heard the lizrats squeak amongst the cliffs as children laughed and adults chatted while going about their chores.

But then he was right there again, in that coldly lit kitchen. However, Taraxa spoke, soft and sad at first, but then with wistful animation, about berry bushes grown in large pots, and fields laid out on top of buildings.

It was far past midnight when the exhaustion of the day finally grew too heavy, and the yawns overtook his ability to continue the conversation. Taraxa softly said that she was used to working at this time and sleep during the day, but she wouldn't mind a nap.

Sig went to sleep on the sofa, leaving her to do as she wished with the rest of the place. She smiled a little as he left.

Several hours later he woke up by the sound of Taraxa shuffling around in the apartment. Groggy from the late night, he pushed himself to sitting and swung his legs over the side of the sofa, rubbing his eyes. When he looked up, Taraxa was leaning into the doorframe, tilting her head sideways and giving him a sleepy smile. She had washed off the makeup – this revealed haggard dark rings under her eyes, but she looked a lot more at ease.

"I'm making coffee," she said and disappeared from sight. "Just a moment."

"You don't hafta…" Sig started, but a yawn cut him off.

"It's fair!" she called back.

The coffee she brought him a few minutes later was like colored water compared to what he was used to, cluing him in that what he had made last night hadn't been to her taste. But like her, he didn't say anything about it, and it still tasted better than anything else he had tried to eat or drink for the last few months.

Taraxa sat beside him on the sofa, at a small, relaxed distance they both silently agreed on.

Eventually, she glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed, putting her cup on the table.

"I better go," she said. "My escort will be here soon."

Sig stood up and followed her to the exit, holding up a hand as she slowly reached for the door.

"Don't talk about me," he told her. "Rayn prolly wouldn'a like that."

Taraxa froze, giving him a searching look.

"Why is she so possessive?" she asked.

"She thinks I'm a trophy."

Taraxa's eyes narrowed, but he avoided her gaze.

"Were you fooled too?" she asked in a low voice, reaching out to brush her fingertips against his hand.

"Somethin' like that," Sig muttered, drawing back.

Her fingers twitched, but she didn't try to reach out for him. Respecting his distance.

"Thank you, Sig," she softly said, and gave him a warm, sad smile. "I hope things will get better for you."

"Likewise," he responded.

Neither one of them could believe the possibility, though, but for that brief moment they ignored that. Then she was gone, and both of them were left all alone in this cold, unfeeling city once again.

About twenty minutes later Taraxa climbed out of the car that had come to pick her up and bring her back to the brothel. She glanced after it as it sped off, hardly even registering the driver's grinning comment about how he was surprised she could even walk after that customer. The anger about that came later, just another biting set of words for the trash heap inside her memory.

Right then, she was still too wrapped up in the warm confusion of a stranger's kindness.

Gazing up, she saw that no lights were on in the brothel. Of course, this early in the morning it was closed. There were hardly any people out in the street, either. The cold ocean winds of the morning found their way through her jacket and to the generous patches of bare skin beneath. Shuddering, she hurried over to the door and punched in the code to open it.

She only got to push two buttons before the door swung open and the receptionist, Manda, reached her arms towards Taraxa.

"Come in, come in!"

In the beginning, Taraxa had been surprised that there was a receptionist at all, and she had found that she wasn't alone in that. However, everyone had soon enough concluded that it was just Rayn's way of running things. It helped, too. Several of the veterans had praised the idea, of having somebody down there who you could always turn to, who could call for help if something bad happened.

They could be completely grateful. They had given up on any other way of living.

Dazed, Taraxa took the older woman's hand and let herself be pulled inside. A handful of the other women were also there, hovering in the reception. As soon as they saw Taraxa, they all closed in around her, gently urging her to the back room. That was Manda's space, with a simple kitchen and drawers full of anything from handcuffs and condoms to sewing material for mending clothes.

Manda took charge, shooing everyone else back as she steered Taraxa to sit on a chair, and hunched down in front of her.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked, gently reaching out to touch Taraxa's jacket. "Do you need eco salve?"

For a moment, Taraxa could only stare at the other woman. She looked so proper, wearing a suit jacket and with her hair in two braids tied up along the sides of her head. Nobody would mistake her for one of the women she was in charge of.

When there was no response, one of the other prostitutes filled a glass of water from the tap and handed it over. Taraxa took it out of instinct, head still spinning.

"Is she in shock?" somebody whispered, with a mix of curiosity and concern.

Taraxa blinked, and shook her head.

"No… no, I'm fine. Thank you?" she mumbled, looking around.

Shoulders fell and relived breaths were heard.

"Thank goodness." Manda stood up and gently stroke Taraxa's hair. "We were worried when we heard where you got sent. Are you sure he didn't hurt you?"

"Yeah, that guy looks like a total savage," another woman said.

Taraxa stared at them. Finally it made sense. Finally she recalled her own terror when she was informed.

Water spilled over her lap as the glass slipped out of her grip and shattered on the floor, and she curled forward, pressing her hands to her face as she sobbed. Wanted to scream but bottled it up once again, as she had done for months.

Manda wrapped her arms around the whimpering little woman and commanded everyone else to get out, deaf to their worried mutters. Once the door was closed, the receptionist managed to urge Taraxa out of the jacket.

"No bruises?" Manda mumbled as she studied the bared arms. Still, she got up and opened a drawer, taking out a first aid box.

"No… fine… I'm fine," Taraxa choked out between sobs. There was a stack of handkerchiefs on a nearby shelf and she fumbled for one, burying her face in it. "He's… please don't say that…"

The warning to speak about him sparked up in her mind, and she clapped her mouth shut. Just took the eco salve tube that she was offered and sat there as Manda hugged her and muttered soothingly, believing whatever she wanted.

Taraxa kept weeping for how damn unfair everything was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taraxa's name comes from "Taraxacum officinale", the Latin name for dandelion.


	9. Witness

Even with all the weeks that had passed, Daxter still caught himself starting to say "let's call the big guy," whenever a hairy-looking mission was laid out before the two of them. Jak never got far enough to form the words before the memory struck again, but it always left a sick feeling in his stomach. And Daxter knew, of course. He felt it too.

In between missions they turned Haven and the whole desert upside down searching for any clue.

Damas had only brought it up twice since they realized that Sig was missing. It was probably an honor for Sig, the duo suspected, because Damas hadn't ever talked about lost warriors before. It was just something you didn't do in Spargus. Death was a part of life, and moving along and staying alive was the best way to honor the dead, not dwelling on them.

But Jak wouldn't, couldn't. He felt it the worst out of the two of them, Daxter knew – back when Jak needed it the most, Sig was the first person in Haven who had been accepting and friendly from the very beginning, as soon as Krew was out of earshot. That friendship had never wavered since then.

All they could do was continue the fruitless search, because Jak wouldn't give up, and Daxter wouldn't tell him to. Not about this.

The clue they desperately needed appeared suddenly, and from an unexpected source.

It was an early morning in Spargus, while the air was still cool and the sky still dotted with fading stars. A good time to head out into the desert. Technically. Daxter was yawning so wide his jaw could've fallen off as he trailed behind Jak in the car pit. He'd rather still be sleeping, cuddled up together, and Jak probably felt the same, but the worry burnt too strong to allow such relaxation.

"Hey…!"

It was a hoarse call, like the man speaking wasn't sure he wanted to be heard. Daxter wasn't sure it was even for them, but Jak stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. The redhead followed his gaze, and he blinked in awkward surprise at the sight of a dark-skinned mechanic leaning against a car for support. His left leg was limp, obviously unable to support him properly, but he made do.

Even with his dark skin, the gray tattoos covering his face were painfully obvious. Daxter didn't need to see them to recognize the man, though, and his stomach churned at the memory of a marauder torture chamber.

The ex-KG stared at the ground, twisting an oily rag between his hands.

"What?" Jak said, his voice strained. None of them had any idea how to handle speaking with each other.

Zem Tower didn't look up.

"Friend of mine asked…" he said through his teeth, "is it true Sig disappeared after the contest?"

"Yeah," Daxter slowly said, dragging out the word as he eyed the fidgeting mechanic. "Why?"

"Kleiver dragged me along to fix his cars between races," Zem said. He spoke quickly, at first still examining the ground. But as he spoke the next few words, he scrounged his eyes closed, then met the hero's gaze head on. "Sometime before the Blue Cup, Sig showed up and walked off with Kleiver to talk about somethin'."

"What?" both Jak and Daxter said, in completely different tones of voices – but with equal amounts of disbelief.

"About what?" Daxter demanded.

Zem shook his head.

"I dunno. I stayed in the garage." He looked away again. "Sorry. Dunno if it even means anythin'."

"Only one way to find out," Jak said in a low, dangerous voice. Zem flinched, even though Jak was already turning away as he spoke and obviously not aiming his anger at the ex. "Thanks."

The gratitude was distracted, and Zem winced even harder at it. As the Demolition Duo hurried off, he heavily thumped against the hot side of a nearby car for support, combing at his fringe with shaking fingers.

The last thing he'd told Jak was " _Go ahead. It's okay_ ", and now he found that having those cold, blue eyes glaring at him still sent his heart into his throat. There was too much there.

He'd learnt to live with the shame and terror – but only if Jak and he had nothing to do with each other.

But he knew he owed Sig a big one… and on the same subject, Sig was important to Junn because he was Vida's friend. More than that, Sig was Jak and the gangly redhead's friend, everyone knew that. And when it came to Jak, there was no end to Zem's debt.

A heart-rending wave of dread and panic was a small price to pay, for the hope of offering aid to any of those people.

It took less than five minutes for Jak and Daxter to home in on their target, thanks to him being easy to find in the car pit. Every mechanic was keenly aware of their boss's location at any given moment, so it didn't take much asking.

For an added bonus, he was talking to Damas.

"Kleiver!"

Damas too looked around at Jak's snarl as the two young men came stomping across the sand. Far bigger Wastelanders along the way took one look at the blond's face and moved out of the way.

"Whut? Ya lost yer nappie, nipper?" Kleiver said with a sneer.

"Oh good, you'll make it easier to put the squeeze on the big guy, chief," Daxter commented to Damas.

The joke was ignored, drowned even, in Jak's louder demand.

"What did Sig want with you in Kras?"

Kleiver's smirk fell and a dangerous scowl dug into his forehead.

"Dunno what yer on about. Mebbe you should cut your fancy hair again, that brain of yer's getting' overcooked."

"Yeah see, we got somebody who saw you," Daxter said, folding his arms with a sneer. "Smack dab during your time playing for the other team."

Kleiver's eyes thinned and he muttered something under his breath. Something about " _wringing that hobbling bastard's neck_." He didn't get far though, as Damas grabbed his shoulder and with what seemed like eerily little effort spun the huge man around to face him.

The King's voice could have stopped a metal head in its tracks with its intensity. "What are they talking about?"

The ferocity had its desired effect on Kleiver. It was the first time any of the observers had ever seen him recoil. He caught himself quickly, however, and straightened up.

"Sig 'ad some pers'nal business that time," Kleiver said, looking between the three of them pointedly. He did not quite manage to hide the tension in his voice, though. And since it was a new experience, it was blaringly obvious. "Ask him, I ain't gonna spill his stuff."

"We can't ask him, 'cause he's gone," Daxter said.

Kleiver blinked.

"Whaddaya mean gone?" he spat.

"He's been missing for three months," Damas said, glaring at the man. "I told you to keep an eye out!"

"Yeah, Your Lordship, but I didn'a hear anymore 'bout it so I supposed he'd turned up in Haven or somethin'." Kleiver's voice was distracted, as he scowled and massaged his mustache with rough, rolling motions.

When it became obvious that Kleiver wasn't feeling the least bit helpful, Jak spoke up again. Less angry this time, but his voice remained just as hard.

"Anything might help, Kleiver. What did he want in Kras?"

"It ain't got nuthin' to do with anythin'," the huge man snapped. "It's over an' done with." He glared at Jak and Daxter. "Yanno, ye ain't such babies that you can't figger he might be metal head droppings right now. Or buried in the sand. People go missing all the time out here."

Jak's shoulders rose for every word on the last three sentences, and his hands balled up. Those were forbidden thoughts. He worked his jaw, but he had nothing to say. He never had anything to say when it mattered.

But Daxter did. At least, he tried.

"Y-ya know, ya really should have a bit more faith in your pros around here," the redhead said. But he couldn't keep the stutter out of his voice.

"Ain't nobody 'pro' enough to never slip up," Kleiver countered, hard, merciless truth crashing down around them.

Daxter looked at Jak. Jak looked at Damas. Damas let out a slow breath through his nose and gazed at the walls, at the defense against every deadly thing out there in the vast, unforgiving desert. The metal heads knew about Sig. So did the marauders. His head would be a coveted trophy.

Such dark thoughts ran through all their heads. But in Daxter's case, something clicked.

"Wait!" he piped up, a defiant grin spreading across his face as he raised a knowledgeable pointing finger. "I ain't buying it!"

That got all the other three's attention, with varying mixes of surprise and annoyance.

"We've gone chasing beasties and marauders together with Sig lotsa times. So they know we're a tag team," Daxter said. He patted Jak's shoulder. "There ain't no way they wouldn't let us know they got him, just to mess with the top pro here. Heck, if Sig fell down a cliff they'd climb down to get proof."

It was a cruel, and not exactly flawless logic. But it did make a lot of sense the more you thought about it. Because Sig might be known to their enemies, but he wasn't the only one – and the top spot on their enemies' hit lists was reserved for Jak (shared with Damas). Any way to get at Jak would be jumped for. Probably.

It was some comfort, at least.

"Which brings us right back to you, Meat-hacker," Daxter declared, turning his pointing finger on Kleiver.

This was only met with a roll of the eyes. Unfortunately for Kleiver, his attempt at playing it cool backfired simply due to it not being his usual tactic.

"Kleiver," Damas said in that very special, royal tone. "I order you to tell us what you know."

"Lordship, it ain't got nuthin' to do with anything here!" Kleiver snapped, exasperated enough to raise his voice even at his King. "Sig just had some business in Kras—" His eyes widened and he stood stock still for a moment, then slapped a meaty hand to his forehead. "Unless— bugger. Hoshit—!"

" _What_?" Damas, Jak and Daxter snapped at pretty much the same time.

"Err… hm." Kleiver cleared his throat and took in a deep breath. "Fine, okay. Ya got me. Sig needed help to git ingredients fer yer antidote."

They stared at him for a moment.

"But Krew had prepared…" Daxter started, but faltered when Kleiver shook his head.

"Nope. Sig told me so. He'd only cooked up enough for his girl, just in case. But she wanted ta save all'a yer hides, for sum reason."

"What does that have to do with Sig going missing?" Damas demanded.

"That's where it gets sticky, Your Lordship." Kleiver pulled at his mustache. "See, when Sig was scouting to work for Krew, he needed ta prove himself useful. And Krew said, if he could scrounge up some black shade, he'd be in. So it was his fault the kiddies were all about to keel over."

Silence.

"But Sig told me the poison used was— oh, of course." With a grunt, Damas pinched the bridge of his nose. "He was covering up." His hand fell and he scowled. "We seem to have figured it out."

"Why'd he go and think we'd get on his spikes for that?" Daxter huffed, folding his arms.

"Ye ain't got no clue, ratboy," Kleiver grimly said. "He was getting his jammies in a twist worry-warting 'bout you kids findin' out. If that lil' viper had that on him with proof , she'd have him doing the tango for her any day."

"And I believe I only increased that fear when he told me about the poison," Damas said.

Daxter opened his mouth to make a comment about the epic shouting of fatherly worry that had followed when Damas first learned the truth about them racing in the championship, but thought better of it. He'd only heard part of it because it had largely been reserved for Jak alone; even that had been enough to set his ears ringing afterwards.

"We're going to Kras," Jak said, and started to move away.

"Jak."

Damas's voice stopped the young hero in his tracks and he turned around, meeting his father's gaze. The king's thin lips quirked in a cold, hard smirk.

"Tear that city apart," he said.

"Yessir," Jak said, grinning from ear to ear as he hurried off to make a call and pack what little they would need, Daxter hot on his heels and whooping.

* * *

The sky was overcast with heavy clouds, so much that it was hard to tell that it was even dawn at all. The street lights began to go out as they were programmed to do, leaving the walkways in bleak obscurity. Islands of light floated in the shadowy world from windows and passing cars, but that was all.

Sig felt more than ever like he was trapped in a realm of the dead.

Compared to the outside, the vibrant colors and lights of Rayn's apartment cut into his tired eyes. There was life and warmth in there, as if she drew what little good this city had to herself and hogged it like a jealous wyrm.

Tired as he was after the late night, he was for a moment surprised that it was some random thug and not Chilton who opened the door. Then he remembered, and inwardly groaned at what he knew would be expected of him soon enough. He'd never liked Chilton. But dislike didn't make him want to break a helpless man's bones.

Chilton had done something horrible, and wanted worse to happen to Rayn. Sig wasn't so far gone, though, that he thought two wrongs made a right. He still had integrity, even if Rayn had taken away everything else.

Razer was already waiting with Rayn in the office. At some point there would probably be a new secretary, more carefully chosen than the last. Another one to raise his nose and scoff at Sig while Rayn smiled and ordered dirty job after dirty job.

Perhaps Taraxa had been a mistake. That little breather, that glimpse of companionship and compassion made everything feel so much more raw where he had almost gone numb.

He didn't get far in those thoughts, because Rayn struck the moment he was inside and the door was closed. She twisted her mouth in disdain and regarded him coldly.

"I don't know what you did to her," she said, "but Taraxa was so beaten up after seeing you that she can't work for at least two days."

He couldn't take it in, at first. Could just stare at Rayn in disbelief, at both the news and the implication.

"I didn't—!"

"Then who did? She was fine when she was brought to you. Explain that to me."

And her lips quirked the slightest bit in a cold smirk, telling him that she full well knew that _he_ hadn't laid a finger on the poor woman.

Sig had only considered that Taraxa would be more leverage, which would not have made a difference. His mistake had been that he still had believed that Rayn was like Krew. But Rayn wasn't like her father, who had struck immediately and directly against anything that displeased him.

She was unforgiving, and her cruelty was petty.

"I'm not letting you have her, or anyone else, ever again if you're going to be like that," Rayn said, sounding grim though a smirk laced her voice.

Behind her, Razer's brow twitched.

Rayn held Sig's gaze for a moment, completely unfazed by the raw disgust and hatred he didn't even bother trying to hide. It was as if she was blind to the fact that the limit was dangerously close. But Razer saw it, in plain view. His hand drifted over a pocket at his hip, pressing against it with feigned easiness – making sure that the weapon he hid was there.

It made him feel marginally calmer. Experience told him in no unclear terms that this would be a very trying day.

"Well then, I trust we have cleared that up," Rayn said, half turning away with a smug, pleased smile while Sig stood there, silently boiling.

She glanced back and tilted her head.

"Now then, order of business," she said. "Chilton has some explaining to do. And since you're so fond of punching people, Sig, let's continue with somebody who deserves it, shall we?"

The day didn't get any better from there.

* * *

The room smelled of eco burnt cloth and flesh, a stinging, sulfuric scent. Familiar, heavy, tired.

It was more of a windowless bunker than an apartment, but it had still been made into a makeshift office and sleeping quarters. Now the desk was overturned, and the bed wouldn't be used to sleep in.

The screaming and cursing had stopped. There hadn't been nearly enough thugs to stop them from reaching this room. Now there was just the strained, wet breathing of a woman trying not to sob, and the throaty, hungry snickers of the men surrounding her as she pressed herself against the wall. They hadn't struck yet, savoring this hopeless terror like an appetizer.

Sig was – dully – surprised that something like this hadn't happened sooner.

He was tired. So damn tired. For a moment he closed his eyes, and his fists clenched at his sides.

This would be the end.

Sig looked back to the woman. The makeup had crackled under the sweat breaking on her face. It gave a hint about that she was a lot older than she looked at a glance. Rayn had mentioned her name, but he hadn't been listening that closely.

This was Chilton's mother.

The son's screaming still rang in Sig's ears, but no matter what Chilton couldn't be made to spill the location. However, Rayn had other ways, and an informant had found the mother out.

Those news had been the very last thing Chilton heard.

From the way she had managed to hold them off for a bit, she had probably wanted to go down fighting. Knew there was no way out alive, but death would only be a release from what she knew would happen first.

_ENOUGH_

Sig forced his way past the other thugs, deaf to their protests.

The woman's eyes widened as he towered over her, and her knees gave away. She sunk to the floor, a destitute moan whispering past her lips. Sig hunched down.

"Hey, I wanted to go first!" Shiv grumbled in the background, but Sig threw a snarl at him over his shoulder.

The thug threw his hands up in a calming, but annoyed gesture as he took a step back. Rolling his eyes. The others muttered too, apart from Razer who just watched from the door. He caught Sig's eye and casually blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke. Content with watching. This was just business as usual to him, and the rest of them.

The woman before Sig reminded him of how Rayn had looked just when he broke through the door to rescue her from Chilton's thugs. But this woman had nobody to come and save her.

Sig took a firm grip of her head and met her gaze. A tiny light sparked up as he gave the smallest nod. He couldn't say anything, they would realize what he was doing and might be able to stop him. For this, he couldn't take that risk.

Her lips formed a silent "thank you."

Before anybody behind his back realized what was going on he changed his grip, and with a hard twist, he snapped the woman's neck. The dissolving powder and rouge on her cheeks smeared his palms and fingertips as he let her head slip out of his grip. In that first shocked silence she slumped down, dead.

The silence didn't last long.

"What the _fuck_?"

Sig stood up and turned around without a word, staring the furious thugs down as they yelled at him.

The shouting and swearing melded into a white buzz in his ears. Pointless and predictable, and he just stood there weathering it, waiting for the actual explosion. He didn't lash out, expecting one of them to strike first.

But then Shiv jabbed a finger at Sig's chest, and snarled:

"Think you can do whatever, just 'cause Rayn can't get enough of your big, black—"

He almost got to finish the sentence before Sig's fist smashed into his face. In the brief, shocked silence, Shiv tumbled to the floor.

But the thugs were used to violence, and the shock was only because Rayn's seemingly well-trained attack dog had finally bit back. Shiv hadn't even stopped falling before his friends fell over Sig.

For the first time he felt just how out of shape he was. His motions had no fluidity, and punches he should have been able to block instead hit. But blind rage carried him through, and even in a bad state he was a better fighter than any of them.

One stumbled back and hit the back of his head against the bedframe, slumping down. Another fell forward, screeching for air after getting a knee in his stomach. No time to knock that one out, there were still three more trying to land a blow.

"Sig!"

Razer's voice was like a whip crack, alien amongst the cursing and shouting for its controlled, strict tone. It made Sig glance up.

He saw the gun in Razer's hand.

Instincts told him to duck.

But his heart said " _I don't care anymore._ "

He met Razer's gaze, and the other man fired.

It stung.

Then, nothing.


	10. Recidivism

The first thing he became aware of was the dull pain. He'd felt it many times in his life, after missions that hadn't gone according to plan and ended in a rough fight. It had been a long time since he last felt it, and in that sense it had a strange sort of pleasant familiarity.

The second thing he noticed was a thick scent of cigarette smoke.

His eyelid felt heavy as lead, but he managed to pry it up. All he saw was a grey blur. A few blinks cleared his vision, and the blur became a ceiling and walls. Cracks crawled along both surfaces and a bundle of old cobwebs hung in the corner high above him.

Sig glanced aside, taking in what little else there was in the dinky room. The only light came from a streetlight outside a dirty window, and the only furniture was the bed Sig laid on, a small table beside it and a simple chair with its back turned towards him.

And on the chair was Razer, resting his arms on top of the rickety backrest, legs spilling out on either side of it as he watched Sig. He'd taken off his red coat, which made him look a lot smaller and a whole lot more down to earth, especially in the sleeveless shirt he wore. With his arms bared, a black flame tattoo which covered most of his lower right arm was revealed. His gloves laid thrown on the small table.

An ash tray was also on the table, cluttered with ash and the butts of several smoked cigarettes.

"Sorry, my big angry friend," Razer said, the side of his lip curling. "You're still alive."

Sig tried to move only to find that his muscles felt sluggish and unresponsive. Whatever drug Razer had hit him with, it was still firmly in his system. A stitch of panic lashed out, but it faded just as quick.

He didn't care.

"I see I failed to amaze," Razer commented with a theatrical roll of his head. "Such a shame, but it happens. And you probably realize that Her Highness would have me flogged if I let you get yourself killed."

He made a twirling motion with one hand, and a small dart appeared between his fingers as by magic. The memory of the raised gun swam in Sig's mind. Connecting the dots, he supposed that Rayn had given Razer that weapon for just such an occasion. Weeks ago, it would have made him furious. Now, it couldn't even break through the numbness. Maybe it was a residue of the drug that made him so lethargic, but he wasn't convinced. He felt as empty as the ruins in the deep desert.

Thinking about that made his mind veer off towards the vast, hot beauty of the Wasteland, but Razer was speaking again. Saving Sig from the torture of that, at least.

"I made a report to her before getting you carted over here," he said. "I will warn you that the lady is displeased."

He dropped the dart on the table and produced a new cigarette and a lighter from a pocket. The small flame flickered in the dim light for a moment, followed by the round, steady glow of the rolled stick.

The red hot little circle seared into Sig's vision as it drifted about in Razer's hand. He still saw it when he blinked, like pale blue flashes on the inside of his eyelid.

Of course Rayn was angry. He hadn't stayed down. Hadn't been obedient. Had forced Razer to use a last resort while the other men watched, if they were still awake at that point. Sig felt fuzzy on that detail.

Though he wasn't sure why he was here, and not getting shouted at by Rayn in her office. Implications bubbled up, threatening his tired peace of mind.

"You knew I'd do that," he grunted, his voice gravely and painful in his throat. Said it to stall, because he didn't know where things were headed, and some survival instincts managed to break through.

"True," Razer said with a nod as he pocketed the lighter and leaned forwards against the backrest. "Personally, I don't get in between when the boys want to play."

He shrugged.

"I wasn't surprised when you did, though. I am more surprised that you didn't snap earlier. Mind you, I had to use all of my charms to keep the boys from slitting your throat while you were down. You made so many people upset today."

Sig stared at the ceiling.

"They used to have a lot of dirty little ideas about how I stayed Mizo's right hand man, too." Razer propped one elbow up, leaning his chin against his fist. With a sardonic little smile, he added, "Of course, in my case at least half of it was true."

No comment.

A muffled whooshing sound and a blast of light through the window announced that a car turned a corner outside. The light painted a wide, sweeping halo on the wall and disappeared just as quickly. Razer stood and took the few steps needed to reach the window, holding his cigarette to the side as he leaned forwards to peer outside. But the car drove off without stopping, just passing by. He still stood there for a moment, as if to make sure nobody had leaped out and approached.

It struck Sig that maybe Rayn didn't know where they were. Not that he knew, either.

Not that he cared. He couldn't move, anyway. But the mist was clearing in his head, enough to begin prodding him with unease about his paralyzed state.

Razer turned away from the window and strode back across the floor. He stopped beside the chair, lowering his eyelids a little as he studied the unmoving Wastelander on the bed. Took a drag and let the smoke stream out of his nose and mouth, grey wisps elegantly drifting through the air until they evaporated and left only the thick, spicy scent behind.

"Rayn told me she'll pick up the pieces when I'm done with you," Razer said.

Sig didn't respond.

"You are quite easy on the eyes, if one likes them tall, dark and bitter." Razer said it with a slanted smirk. Then he scoffed. "But it's not my preference. Also, I think you're way more trouble than you're worth."

A part of Sig, one that he hadn't even wanted to acknowledge, cautiously relaxed.

"Okay." Razer put the cigarette out in the ash tray and turned the chair around, so that he could sit down properly on it. Folding his arms and swinging one leg up over the other, he narrowed his eyes at Sig. "Why are you here?"

Even in his current state, the question made Sig tense up. Or at least twitch, because it was all he could manage right then. But he pressed his lips shut and stared up at the cracked ceiling.

When there was no response, Razer sighed and rolled his eyes.

"If you think that you've played your role well, allow me to correct you," he said. "Every fiber in your being is screaming that you don't want to be here. And you don't fit in the least."

No response. Razer waited for a few seconds, but finally shrugged.

"Alright then, since you're playing hard to get…" he said. "Let's see. I doubt that she's poisoned you, because you wouldn't fall for that again."

Sig didn't bother mentioning that he'd never been poisoned at all. He couldn't help but look back at Razer though, weary dread building in his gut.

"And if she held somebody hostage, you would be more careful than you've been." Razer raised an elegant eyebrow and bent one arm back over the top of the armrest, leaning his weight on it. "So, I must assume that she's blackmailing you."

He had seen it coming, and yet Sig couldn't keep from flinching. It was small, but Razer saw it. The twist of his mouth spoke loud and clear before he voiced it.

"Ah, right to the heart," he commented. "Now then, you must've been a very naughty boy, since you're not calling your friends for help." He tilted his head. "Or is it about them, hmm? Your 'old' friends, as Miss Rayn so succinctly put it?"

"Don't talk about them!" Sig hoarsely snapped.

Razer looked amused.

"Touchy, touchy. Strange thing, mystifying, I must say." He leaned closer. "Now, I cannot claim to know any of them intimately. But I do know that for a sob story, dear Jak would let anybody get away with murder."

Sig's gaze returned to the ceiling, his jaw tightly clenched.

"Is it worth being a slave?" Razer asked in a curious tone.

He had to say it.

He had to say the one word Sig hadn't allowed to even cross his mind.

"Or perhaps you prefer the term 'freedom challenged?'" Razer commented, but Sig heard him as if through water.

All he could do was to close his eye and shake his head. He wanted to claw at his face and roar out the agony twisting in his heart, but the drug kept him chained down. His mind spun, teetering on the edge. Needed to move, to scream, to destroy that accursed idea, the mere —

… The mere truth.

A groan escaped him.

Strangely enough, Razer gave him generous space to digest the sickening word. When Sig finally opened his eye a crack again, Razer was just sitting there waiting, balancing his chin on the back of one hand.

He met Sig's gaze.

"Cough it up, big boy," Razer softly said.

"No." Sig managed to turn his head a little, only to have gravity and the dip of the pillow roll it back. "Non'ya business."

"I don't trust Rayn's blind faith in you," Razer said. "Especially not after what happened back there at dear old Mrs. Chilton's place. I want to know what makes her think she's so certain."

Sig just pressed his lips tightly shut. His whole life had been based on survival, and knowing when to depend on people. There was not a fiber of his being that believed Razer to be a potential ally. It was bad enough that Rayn had the ultimate trump card over him – no way would he hand that over to yet another person who would use it against him at the first opportunity.

"Your life expectancy out here isn't looking good," Razer said, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. "I may be able to help you."

"I'm a Wastelander," Sig dully told the ceiling.

Razer sighed and tipped forward, rubbing his face with his fingertips in small, annoyed circles.

"My friend," Razer said in a low voice. "In case you had somehow not noticed, you can barely move. I advise you to think about that for a moment."

Sig had just waited for that to be brought up again, and his jaw was already firmly clenched.

"I'm a Wastelander," he repeated through his teeth.

Closing his eyes, Razer drew in a deep, sharp breath through his nose and let it out slowly as he straightened up. He raised his hands in a shrug and let out a dry laugh.

"I yield," he said. "I realize that it would take more time and more exquisite tools than I have at hand to make you warm up to me. So…"

He took out a lighter from a pocket and absently turned it between his fingers. Sig was by no means ready to relax, and the sight of the lighter evaporated any thought of that.

"Ah yes. On a wholly different note, Rayn lied about your little girlfriend," Razer said. When Sig gave him a sharp look, he rolled his eyes. "I looked into it. The girl was in tears after visiting you, nothing worse than that. I suppose Rayn didn't care enough to waste a couple of days' business."

"Why tell me?" Sig asked in a guarded tone, uncertain of where this was going.

"It's a risk dear Miss Rayn took for being too cheap to bother actually having the girl slapped around, if she wanted to make an example out of her. Very sloppy." He studied Sig. "Sloppy to play that card so soon, too. But then, she seems to lose all her good sense when it comes to you."

He smirked, though not with amusement.

"The way she handled that makes her seem almost…"

_Don't say it Precursors don't say it_

"… Jealous."

A disgusted sound left Sig's lips and he pinched his eye shut.

"My, my, my," Razer murmured. "I seem to find all your sensitive spots tonight."

"Why?" Sig's voice came out in an agonized creaking.

"Please have a little trust in me, I am trying to show off that I have a kind side too. Just for you."

Sig glared at him, silent.

"Ah, you doubt me." Razer chuckled and winked, wagging one finger. "A good philosophy, because I do have ulterior motives."

He picked up the half smoked cigarette from the ashtray and lit it again. However, he held it between his thumb and pointing fingertips, making no move to actually start smoking it.

_Shit_.

Sig only felt numb, coming to a foregone conclusion. Of course he wouldn't get away.

"I know it doesn't quite make it fair, but it makes us a little more even," Razer absently said, studying the slow burning tobacco. Reaching into a pocket, he drew out his butterfly knife and dropped it on the table. For later. "As much as we dislike each other, I prefer giving you some reason to not rip my arms off when nobody's watching."

The red glow flared in the slight breeze as he moved the cigarette towards Sig's throat.

"I'm sure you understand that Her Highness expected me to make this a very unpleasant conversation," Razer said.


	11. Objection

They'd had to wait two days for a ship to head to Kras. Now that the championship was over and autumn wore on, the tourism trips – a luxury concept to begin with – had faltered for the season. And then it took almost ten hours to get to Kras, during which Daxter popped sea sick pills like candy just to be able to keep upright. They spent half the night up on the deck so he could get fresh air, wrapped in a blanket against the cold wind.

Kras became visible long before any silhouette of buildings peeked above the horizon. The first view of it in the early morning's darkness was a distant glow rising from the far ocean and illuminating the heavy clouds in a mishmash of colors. The light of dawn melted the worst of it away from the sky, but by that time the ship was close enough that the thousands of neon signs could compete with the sunlight.

The harbor was deserted save for dock workers, toiling away under the cold street lights.

"Aw, no welcome committee?" Daxter commented as he took a glance over the peaceful scene, leaning against the ship's railing. "It's almost like they don't care!"

"If they don't, they will soon," Jak said in that very special quiet voice that meant a lot of things were going to be very broken very soon.

Daxter let out a hoarse laugh, but there was a hard edge to it.

They walked off to the vehicle deck, aware of the dock workers watching them. Minutes later they were tearing down the familiar streets, sliding through the somewhat slower than usual morning traffic. It was that strange hour where the night people and day people were switching places and everyone was sleepy. That made it a simple trip to the Bloody Hook.

They had no idea where to find Rayn, but she would know where they would head first, even during this insanely early morning. Neither one doubted that she'd known they were coming long before they touched shore.

They hadn't needed to talk about where to go; it was the most logical place.

Razer's presence in the pub was immediate confirmation. His red coat made him a bright spot amongst all the other dull patrons, and he had the gall to not look the least bit sleepy as he glanced around at the door chime. At first glance he was alone by the bar, but it was safe to assume that everyone else there was on his side.

"Hiya, sunshine!" Daxter cheerfully shouted in his most shrill voice, making more than one person there growl. "Didn't know vampires were awake this early!"

Then Jak entered behind the redhead, and the annoyed atmosphere thickened with tension.

During the races, he had worn a tight fit racing uniform. Now, his clothing was simple, ragged at the edges, and dusty with desert sand. He wasn't a racer, he was a Wastelander.

He wasn't their Jak.

"I heard you were in town," Razer said, lowering his eyelids slightly as the two of them approached. "How sweet of you to come visit me."

"We don't have time for any of your crap, psycho diva," Daxter snarled. He made a motion towards Jak, who hadn't changed from his defensive stance. "We can do this with a light show or with dark poetry. And lemme warn you, the light show involves tentacles."

"Is that a threat?" Razer responded, but he raised his hands in a pacifying motion very quickly.

In any other situation, Daxter would have gladly spun that to see if he could actually make the smooth operator uncomfortable, but he wasn't in the mood. This was business.

"You've got one of our big pals here," he said, fixing Razer with a glare. "Sig."

"We do?" Razer said and blew out a cloud of smoke, gazing at the two of them through the haze. "That is news to me."

"Playing hard to get doesn't suit you, ya know," Daxter said with a sneer. He whipped two fingers out to point towards Razer and his smoke cloud. "And just a pro tip, if you're gonna play innocent, try to wipe the sarcasm outta your eyes."

Razer just gave him a long, bored look.

"The game's up, bub, so cough out the intel before we give you the squeeze," Daxter said, and proceeded to bluff through his teeth. "We've got peeps who said they saw him with you and your goonies. Big guy like him stands out, ya know."

Everyone in the bar shifted, either preparing to duck or reaching for their weapons. Except Razer and the two young intruders, who just stood there like statues for a moment, mutely challenging each other.

Razer glanced at Jak, and dark eco crackled at the hero's fingertips. They weren't going to play this game the mafia way.

With a soft sigh, Razer crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and stepped away from the bar, crossing his arms.

"And what if he doesn't want to see you?" he said in an even voice, looking between the two of them.

"Yeah, lookie here, we know what Sig did, and we wanna have a chat with him about it," Daxter said. "So you just tell us where he is."

"How unfeeling!" Razer sighed. "You must understand that your handsome friend has been in a very… compromising situation since he's come back here. And here you are, ready to trample upon his wishes."

"Uh-huh, yeah." Daxter scoffed and sneered. "See, we trump all of your butts with a few years of knowing Sig better than any of you, so don't even try to tell us what he wants."

"Where is Rayn?"

Jak's voice was low, and calm. And it made a shiver of terror run down every spine in the room except his and Daxter's.

Even Razer needed a moment. Then he cleared his throat and his usual smug expression returned.

"I'll be sure to let Rayn know you'd like to speak with her," Razer said, patting Daxter's shoulder in a patronizing way.

Both Jak and Daxter were too busy glaring at that gesture to notice where Razer's other hand drifted.

"But I can't guarantee that Her Highness will grant you an audience," Razer added and drew back. "She's a very busy woman these days."

"If Rayn knows anything about Baron Praxis," Jak said in that same voice, "she knows she doesn't want me loose in her town."

He turned, Daxter following with one final glare.

And they were gone, the door slamming shut so hard that the windows jangled.

Razer leaned back against the bar, looking perfectly unaffected. However, he allowed himself to let out a long, slow breath. Of course Rayn knew about Baron Praxis. Everyone who paid attention did.

Yet it was glaringly obvious to Razer that his new boss was incapable of connecting the dots in this case. She didn't seem to take it seriously.

Razer, on the other hand, felt that keeping Sig was definitely not worth all the destroyed buildings and piles of corpses that Jak was prepared to leave in his wake. Rayn might very well end up as one of those bodies, and that would leave a dangerous power vacuum on top of the reconstruction bill.

Also, forcing him to get out of bed and head to the Bloody Hook just to greet those two at this time of the day was just unforgivable.

Outside, the two young men didn't exchange one word until they reached the Sand Shark.

"I know he's a big guy, but it'll be like looking for a lurker in the market district," Daxter said, gazing down the street in front of them. But he slipped down in the seat beside Jak, schooling his face into a determined expression.

"Then we'll turn things upside down until she hands him over," Jak growled, eyes set on the road as he twisted the wheel and stomped on the pedal, sending them roaring down the asphalt strip.

One thing Kras had over Haven was the speed of the traffic, even now when the city was awakening properly. There was almost never any kind of standstill, even without the inability to move several feet up or down in the air like the zoomers of Haven city. Kras had been constructed to allow racing pretty much everywhere, and speed limits hardly existed.

Of course Jak put every last one of the other drivers on the streets to shame, weaving in and out of every given opening to get where he wanted. It was still aimless, however; neither one of them knew where they wanted to start. Daxter let Jak head wherever his instincts pointed. That tended to work out messy but for the best.

Trying to think of something that could help, Daxter shifted on his seat. That was when he felt that there was something in one of the pockets by his waist. He dug into it and drew out a piece of paper. He stared at it for a second, at first surprised that it was even there and then even more at who must have placed it. Still staring, he reached out and poked at Jak's arm.

"Jak… Jak, clue."

Jak took a glance and then quickly slid into a parking spot along the road so that they could look at the message together. It was written in a quick, elegant hand which neither of them recognized, but it was easy enough to guess.

_**Rayn is blind to the risk vs. reward. Try around here.** _

And a short list of street names.

"From Razer?" Jak said, plucking it from Daxter's hand to glare closer at it.

"Must be, I sure didn't have it before. This smells like a trap," Daxter said, crinkling his nose.

"Good." Jak started the engine and sped out of the white parking square, ignoring the shocked honks from the car that had been coming down the street behind them.

"I knew you'd say that." The resigned sigh was brief, however, and caused more than habit. Daxter's face was settling back into a resolute frown even as the breath passed over his lips. Jak's scowl never let up for a moment.

Seconds passed. Then realization struck.

" _Ew_!" Daxter exclaimed. "Razer stuck his fingers down my pocket!"

Jak barely avoided swerving onto the sidewalk. He turned a corner and slowed down, just to give Daxter a look that slapped the half-serious, half-joking grimace right off the redhead's face.

"Uh…" Daxter rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. "Well… he did."

"Don't joke about stuff like that," Jak said in a low voice.

Not angry.

Uncomfortable.

"Sorry." Daxter reached out and brushed his fingers over Jak's hand on the gear stick.

Jak let go for a moment, turning his hand over so he could grasp Daxter's hand and give it a squeeze to show that the apology was accepted. That was all they needed.

"Alrighty, let's go Sig-hunting!" Daxter cheered as Jak let go of him and returned full focus to driving.

* * *

Sig wasn't sure how long he had been sitting on the floor of that dusty, empty room. It didn't matter.

The cut on his cheek and the small burn mark at the base of his throat still smarted, even though the former had closed to an uneven red split and the latter had turned from a fat, swelling bubble of pus to a slowly healing, pale lump. They had to heal naturally, because Rayn had declared that he wouldn't get any eco salve since he ought to feel it. To learn.

Then again, she also thought there were a lot more under his clothes. He got away easy this time, all things considered. But there would be a next time, and Rayn might not let Razer take care of future punishment alone. Not that he expected Razer to always be so altruistic. It had just suited the man this time.

It didn't scare Sig. It was just a tired conclusion, that fell through his mind and settled into the smothering bitterness that numbed everything in him.

Something had died when Razer called him a slave.

He wasn't sure why he had been sent to wait in this empty apartment. Rayn had been upset about something and told him to go to this place and wait. For what, he didn't know. And he didn't care.

He heard tires screech against the concrete in a nearby street but didn't think much of it, as it was a common sound is this godforsaken hellhole. Minutes slipped by, and he just sat there on the floor staring up at the cloudy sky through the window.

Had he watched the street, he would have seen it coming.

Running steps echoed in the stairwell far away, hard boots slamming against the floor of the corridor. A few quick words outside, and he only caught the last few:

"Who cares if it's the wrong one!?"

He was getting up and moving further into the room, expecting an attack. His brain didn't catch up with the familiar voice.

And then eco crackled, and Dark Jak tore down the door as had it been made of paper.

"Knock, knock!" came a shrill shout after the demon, and Daxter's face became visible in the gaping door-hole.

If the _damn_ window hadn't been so _damn_ close to the door and thus Dark Jak, Sig would have leaped out of it. But he'd have to go through Jak for that. His hounded instincts acted completely against his nature, instead.

He recoiled.

"Sig!"

Jak transformed even as he called it, and Daxter rushed up beside the blond, holstering his guns.

"Whoa there, buddy. You look like total crap," Daxter commented.

Sig staggered further back when it looked like they would get closer. His head throbbed, and he pressed a hand to his face.

_Not this, not this, no…_

"Leave," he snarled. "Leave!"

His back hit the wall and he leaned against it, scrunching his eye shut. Couldn't bear to look at them, couldn't bear that they'd see him like this, that they'd _find out_ —

"We're not going anywhere without you!" Jak growled back.

Sig could only shake his head, waving at them to not come any closer.

His communicator beeped and he froze. Nausea poured through him as he fumbled for the device, grasping it and pushing the button to answer. He didn't want to, but he moved as if controlled by an outside force.

"Sig! Leave that place right now!" Rayn's sharp command lashed out even as he was still raising the communicator, and he squinted to meet her glare from the screen. "I'll give you new coordinates as you move, just—"

"Ugh, Rayn! Way to butt in on our boys' club meeting," Daxter drawled, too loud for her to miss. Rayn's eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut to a thin, grim line.

Unwatched, Jak unhooked his own communicator from his belt and pushed a few buttons.

"You be quiet, Daxter," Rayn icily said, recovering from the first shock. "I know it's you. And you better get your long, freckled nose out of my business."

"Ooh, you're breaking my heart, babe!"

Daxter theatrically slapped his hands over his chest and staggered backwards. As if this was funny. As if there was any reason to smile left in the world.

"Daxter, stop." Sig groaned, pressing a hand to his good eye. Everything spun around. "Stop. She's got… she's got me. I _can't_ — you gotta—"

The speakers on his communicator were sophisticated enough to transfer Rayn's small, pleased scoff. It made him grit his teeth, hating that she had to show off in front of Jak and Daxter. They'd only come to help, he knew, he knew it so well it burned, and yet…

"So," Rayn said. "There you have it. I know that you and Jak can be difficult to deal with, but I must ask you to leave the premises. You are not welcome here." Her tone changed to a more diplomatic, but just as smug, one. "In fact, I could inform you that you owe me your lives, so you had better think twice before you start causing trouble."

Daxter glanced around, and Jak straightened, giving a thumbs up. While Jak never let up his scowl, a grin broke on Daxter's face as he looked back at Sig.

"Got another VIP wanting a word with you," the redhead said, and Jak flipped his communicator around.

"Sig, _you utter fool_!" roared from the speakers.

Jak had turned the volume up to make the voice loud and clear, so that it would reach the microphone on Sig's communicator. He might not have needed to, though.

Damas was absolutely terrifying when he got angry. But this time, every harsh, furious word flowed into Sig's ears like a drop of healing balm.

"Get back here _right now_! You're on forager duty for the next year!"

"Sig!" Rayn shrieked, all of her bureaucratic finesse shattered in one fell swoop at the sight of how Sig's expression changed.

He had to swallow hard to find his voice, staring at Damas's glowering face on the small screen. All the tension that had built up over the past months fled his body and he almost crumbled to one knee, but braced himself against the wall.

Damas hated weakness. And Sig was not weak.

"Yes, Your Lordship," he said, and dropped Rayn's communicator.

"Sig! You can't— father gave you to me—!"

Rayn's high-pitched protests shattered under Sig's heel to the communicator. It crackled angrily, and cracked pieces of its hull and screen clattered against the floor as he kicked the device across the room.

"Whoa," Daxter commented, looking after it as it crashed back on the floor. "Never thought she was such a brat."

He looked up as Sig heavily thumped against the wall, running his hands through the thin layer of hair growing on his head as he bent his neck backwards, groaning. Looking like he could breathe for the first time in ages.

"Are you hurt?" Jak asked, finally noticing the cut on Sig's cheek and the blister on his throat.

"Yeah." Sig breathed out, giving them an exhausted smile – exhausted, yet it could still have illuminated a dark room. "But it'll be okay."

"Good," came Damas's voice from Jak's communicator. He sounded as strict as always, but there was one of those rare, faint smiles in his tone. "Then move out, on the double."

"Your Lordship, I…" Sig's head dropped forward and he massaged the back of his neck. Wasn't sure where to start, ashamed and grateful and sheepish all at once.

Jak silently offered the communicator and Sig took it, cradling it in his hands to face his King properly. At first Damas looked impatient, as his order to get moving was not immediately heeded, but then a soft sigh flowed through his nose and he shook his head.

"Were we correct in surmising that you were blackmailed, because you provided Krew with the black shade?" he asked.

"He made a recording of me dropping it off," Sig muttered. "Rayn's gonna toss it all over the place now."

There was no way she would let him get away without at least that revenge, if she couldn't have him back or kill him.

He'd been convinced that it would destroy him if they found out. However, in the face of the confession and information, Daxter only scoffed and rolled his eyes, Jak shook his head and Damas pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I will say," Damas said, "that I'm glad I found out about this so much later."

"When I first let you in about the poison—" Sig blurted.

"Yes, I was not in a state of mind where you could have safely confessed your part."

That, at least, saved Sig from feeling like a complete idiot. Only later did he take in the fact that Damas had, for his sake, admitted to being fallible.

"It doesn't matter. You had a mission to complete." Damas leaned a little closer to the communicator on his end, scowl digging deeper into his forehead. "But I take issue with you deserting Spargus. I ought to have you take all your arena tests again." A pause, and then he smirked. "Actually, I will."

"Oh boy, gladiator fanman strikes again!" Daxter muttered in the background. Then, louder, "Eh, you're not gonna pit Jak and me against Siggy for the third one, though, right? Right?"

"I'll think about it," Damas said. The smirk melted back into his usual grim expression. "Enough talk. Get out of there."

Sig was glad that he was, at least for the moment, spared the confession that he had destroyed his war amulet. But even the rant he'd get for that would be music to his ears.

"Yes, Your Lordship," he said.

Damas cut the line on his end, and Sig handed Jak's communicator back.

"There's a ship leaving in about an hour," Daxter said as the three of them hurried down the hallway outside the apartment, their footsteps echoing loud and clear. "Anything you wanna pick up before we blow this rotten pie stand?"

"Yes," Sig said. He could not stop grinning, and it widened even more as he said that.

* * *

The door on the brothel could only be opened through the code lock, if one played by the rules. Sig just kicked the door in.

The receptionist sitting by her desk near the entrance jumped up and recoiled, her face turning ashen as she stared at him stepping over the wreckage.

"Morning," he said, trying not to laugh as he waved the cloud of dust aside. Her fear and shock couldn't dent his good mood, but he also wasn't cruel enough to make it worse unnecessarily. "I just wanna pick up Taraxa."

"You— uh—" the petite woman stammered.

"Taraxa," Sig repeated, calmly.

Swallowing hard, the receptionist leaned forward and pushed a few buttons on the intercom on her desk. It beeped a few times, before it finally crackled and Taraxa's sleepy, confused voice rose from the speakers.

"Wha…?" she yawned.

"Taraxa, get down here," the receptionist said in a high-pitched voice. "Right now. _Please_."

"Right… right away!" Taraxa responded, alarm chasing the grogginess out of her.

It took only half a minute before she appeared at the top of the stair beyond the reception, wrapped in a morning coat and last night's make-up still smeared on her face. She stopped, eyes wide and confused as she saw Sig. He reached a hand towards her.

"I'm getting outta here," he said. "Wanna come along?"

Hope and doubt flashed back and forth in her stare.

"I… they took my passport!" she blurted.

"Mine too. But I've got an escort."

She stared at his grin for a second. Mad hope won out and she spun around, yelling over her shoulder:

"Let me just get dressed!"

She disappeared around the corner, and Sig crossed his arms to wait. The grin hadn't budged an inch.

"Sir…"

Sig looked back at the receptionist, who pressed herself to the wall and wrung her hands against her chest.

"Please…" she croaked. "I've heard… but please— Miss Rayn has done so much good for us on the ground— and the families will start fighting…"

The grin got a dent, but only enough for Sig to scoff.

Rayn should be grateful that the only thing he could care about right then was to get the hell out of Kras and never, ever look back. And that they had to hurry to catch the next ship.

It was strange seeing somebody beg for Rayn's life, though.

He pushed that aside as Taraxa reappeared, still wrapping her coat around herself as she hurried down the stair. All she had on her legs were fishnet stockings – the coat was probably the most covering clothes she owned.

"Is there anybody else who needs a lift out of here?" Sig asked.

Taraxa paused for a moment, but shook her head.

"Not that I know," she said.

"Alright."

They exited, followed by the receptionist's dazed stare.

"How will we get on the—" Taraxa started, but then saw the Sand Shark that was carelessly parked half-way up the walkway, its motor still running.

Daxter hung over the frame, head cocked to the side as he made a greeting salute. Noticing the two leaving the brothel, Jak leaned further into sight and gave Sig a half-smirk.

"Everyone rescued?" Daxter asked.

"Is that…" Taraxa's voice faltered.

Sig glanced at her, but there was hypnotized amazement in her eyes rather than fear of the legends before her. He barked out a laugh, giving her a start.

But they both looked up as there was a sound of several loud, heavy cars tearing down the street. They turned the corner and headed straight for the small gathering. Sig's grin turned bloodthirsty.

He didn't mind the intervention _at all_.

"Ooh, Rayn doesn't want us to go!" Daxter cooed, grinning from ear to ear as he leaned out of the car to wave at Sig.

Taraxa recoiled, but Sig stretched out his arm in front of her.

"We're covered," he said with a grim smirk.

The cars formed a jagged half circle on the street, blocking both ways out. Those weren't just regular cars, but combat racing monster vehicles with their guns aimed at the Wastelanders' car. Thugs stuck their heads out of the windows and leaped out of the cars, hollering insults and threats.

Sig didn't see Razer amongst them and it didn't surprise him. That man was far too smart to get roped into this. He did see Shiv though, who sported a black eye and a murderous glare from their last encounter.

"Now you've done it, you slobbering—"

And then the taunt stuck in Shiv's throat as pure white, glowing tentacles sprouted up from the top of the Sand Shark and a shimmering silhouette of Jak raised itself up and out of the car on them.

Jak hadn't had reason to change during the championship. There had been a sense of pride in being able to fight their competition on equal terms, without cheating or fighting.

Now, all at once, the thugs realized that those crazy rumours had been true.

"I _told_ you the light show involved these, but did you listen?" Daxter hollered above the screaming.

Shots went off only to collide with a shield that held up easily under the onslaught, despite appearing to have the consistency of a soap bubble. The panicking thugs were so busy being freaked out by Light Jak that they didn't even notice Sig charging up his Peace Maker.

He didn't aim for them. The charge exploded in the street, pushing thugs and cars backwards and leaving a deep crater.

The thugs scrambled up, took one more look at the light creature and Sig standing there glaring at them, and fled.

"… me in! Report I say…!"

The voice crackled from a communicator dropped on the ground. Sig strode over and snatched it up, glaring at the flickering image of a frantic Rayn. She gasped when she saw him, starting to speak, but he cut her off.

"Shut your dirty mouth, ya damn snake."

"But I've got—" she stammered.

" _I've_ got plenty ammo left. And also…"

Sig turned the communicator towards Jak, who let his Light form shatter and returned to normal – but only for a moment. With a furious roar his skin turned grey, horns sprouted from his head and claws from his fingers. He spun around and leaped into the air, punching downwards. A shockwave of dark eco rippled out from his fist as it hit the ground, tearing deep cracks into the already damaged asphalt. The nearest cars tumbled over, color and rubber melting off and the seats blackening from the eco heat, flames flickering across the cloth.

"You send a single goon more an' we'll come find you before we leave, Rayn." Sig's lips curled in a bitter, unforgiving sneer, tossing her own words back at her. "You ain't too dumb to understand that much, are you?"

"Sig! Please, be reasonable—"

But Sig instead did something he normally didn't stoop to, and let loose a string of Wastelander cussing to illustrate what he thought of her. While she was still struck mute by sheer shock at the vulgarity, he flung the communicator at the ground, so hard that its hull cracked. It sparked and beeped, and only white noise came out of the speakers.

Closing his eye for a moment he let out a deep breath of relief, letting himself savor how good that had felt. When he looked up, Jak was back to normal and leaning against the Sand Shark, both he and Daxter grinning. Taraxa too watched Sig from behind the car, pressing a fist to her lips and shaking with laughter as tears of relief streamed down her face. In the background, several women peeked out from windows and the door of the brothel – as did neighbors in nearby buildings.

"I didn't think there was a more impolite version of 'may the lice of a thousand cameldiles haunt your genitals,' but the more you know!" Daxter cheerfully said.

For once, Sig allowed himself to chuckle along with the loudmouthed redhead, riding high on the unspeakable feeling of freedom washing through him. He pulled himself together in a moment, though, not so drunk on the release that he forgot that they weren't home free yet.

"You okay there?" Sig gently asked Taraxa, offering her a hand as she visibly trembled while she scrambled into the car.

"Maybe… maybe a bit hysterical," she said in a clogged voice, a half-strangled giggle escaping her. "Sorry— need to digest… oh gods…"

"You called?" Daxter piped up, but Taraxa didn't even seem to register it. He got a snicker from Sig and a light bap on the head from Jak, though.

* * *

The ship cleaved through the darkening waters, leaving twin sets of fading, foamy waves and a trail of little whirlpools in its wake. In the east the fiery reds and warm purples of the sunset had long faded as the sun sunk, and the stars spread high above on the deepening blue of the heavens.

But the horizon behind the ship still remained aglow, the lights of Kras city reaching high enough to create a dim halo above the tall buildings. At this distance, the skyscrapers looked sharp and pointy. It made the battle honed mind think of a sleeping metal head.

The air felt chilly, but crisp and clean, and though Daxter absently massaged his arms while he chatted away, and Jak drew closer to him for warmth – both of them so used to the heat of the desert – neither one suggested going inside the ship. Because Sig just stood there, his good eye closed as he silently drank in deep breaths from the salty, fresh winds.

Taraxa sat curled up on a bench a little ways away, wrapped in a blanket and softly weeping over Jak's communicator as she spoke with her parents. She never drifted far from the men who had saved her, to ensure that nobody would come after her in Rayn's name.

"You better be prepared to take a shower, shave and otherwise pretty yourself up before we get back home, by the way," Daxter commented after a while, tilting his head with a slanted grin as Sig glanced at him. "'Cause you know His Great Crankiness is gonna want to yell at you in person the moment you put one foot in the sand."

That only got a slow shadow of a smile in response. Daxter chuckled and massaged one of his ears. Both of them were starting to go numb from the cold wind, but just this once he wasn't going to complain about stuff like that. It helped that Jak slipped even closer, warm breath brushing over the base of the other cold ear.

Of course, that caused even more goose bumps on Daxter's skin, but for a different reason.

"Oh, and fair warning, Tess might give you an earful too if she manages to snag us before we can sneak off," he added. "She was fretting apart. And you prolly won't escape the Dreadlocks Duo. Or Samos… or Keira…" He threw out his arms in a dramatic shrug. "You know what, just expect a whole army of people ready to rant out their relief at full volume. With our luck the two ol' seer crows told everyone we're coming, so they'll be waiting at the dock for you."

For once, Sig did not look the least bit annoyed at Daxter's rambling. In fact, he even let out a soft, rumbling chuckle.

"We were worried about you," Jak said, in that low, warm voice reserved for only his closest friends.

"Sorry," Sig murmured. He glanced back, towards the lingering glow of the city.

The dim light spread like a fan in the background, surrounding him. He turned away, smile gone as his gaze slipped towards the deck.

An awkward, heavy silence teetered over them, but Daxter tackled it head on. Nothing would ruin this moment of relief. The redhead spread his arms with a playful smirk.

"Ya know, that offer for hugs for everyone still stands, big guy," he said. "And you kinda look like you could use one."

He – mostly – meant it as a joke. Neither he nor Jak expected Sig to look at Daxter for a second, then grab both of them, hoist them up, and press them against his chest.

"… thanks, bush boys."

**_The End._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then of course, when they got back to the desert Sig had to explain what he had done with his armor, so Jak went and flew down the abyss to get it back for him.
> 
> MAAAN this chapter was chathartic to write. I hope it was to read, too!
> 
> This story is so inspired by post-colonial literature it's crazy. Pretty much everything about how Sig is treated in Kras has some connection to things I read while studying that in college. Putting that literature degree to good use ;)


End file.
